Andry woke in a shaking sweat, gulping for air. The soft red-gold glow of a brazier was pale mimicry of the fires he had seen in his sleep. He watched the small, warm flames until his eyes burned, then turned over in bed and hugged the covers around his trembling body.
Andrade had had dreams, visions. So had Sioned. Andry believed in this one, this new aspect of the horrors he had seen years ago. Nine years ago today, in fact. Radzyn in flames, the hundreds of dead, the total destruction—these things were familiar. But now he could put faces and customs to the enemy. They were not sorcerers. They were only men. Merida, league of assassins, scarred on the chin—in token of the first murder, perhaps? He didn’t know; it didn’t matter. They had done—would do—this. Unless he could stop it somehow.
He calmed himself and sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. It was chilly in Princemarch, hinting at another long, rainy winter. He wrapped himself in his cloak and rose to pace the narrow room. Even his rings were cold on his fingers; he held his hands over the brazier to warm them.
The stones had a dark glitter, reflecting his thoughts. Ten rings indicating greater rank and power than any other Sunrunner—yet he was helpless to prevent the slaughter foreseen in his visions.
His fists clenched. He would not be helpless; he refused to be. He must strive and struggle, with no one to understand fully why he did what he did. They wouldn’t believe him even if he explained. Why couldn’t they trust in him?
In the aftermath of his victory over Ruval, Pol had done exactly as he pleased. He hadn’t waited until the Rialla to marry Meiglan—but he had waited until Andry had left Stronghold, so that other Sunrunners and Rohan would be the ones to preside over the ceremony. As for Miyon, it was rumored that Rohan had given him one hellacious lecture in private, but had let him go free. Andry clenched his fists in his bitterness. The Cunaxan prince had given aid and opportunity to Ruval and his brother who had killed Sorin—and yet Rohan had let him go free.
Pol had also gotten his way over trade. Miyon could scarcely do otherwise than agree to everything proposed regarding Cunaxa, Tiglath, and Feruche, which was now officially Riyan’s. As was Ruala. Their children would be sorcerers—and out of Andry’s reach.
But there were plenty of others he could find and eliminate. That was why he was secretly in Princemarch. Pol had even done the seemingly impossible: dragons had hatched in the caves at Rivenrock for the first time in twenty-seven years. Somehow, between the communication established with the dragonsire—whom Pol had named Azhdeen, “dragon brother,” in a display of nauseating conceit—and the cleansing of the canyon with Sunrunner’s Fire, the dragons had decided to use the caves there again. Feylin had been ecstatic, of course, when fully one hundred and eighty-nine hatchlings had flown from Rivenrock, Feruche, and elsewhere. The total dragon population was over three hundred and fifty. Along with Pol’s princedom, dragons were secure. More accolades accrued to Pol’s name, more respect for his gifts and his power.
Andry knew that none of it mattered. Not compared to what was to come.
Chiana had been excused her folly. She truly had been ensorcelled, unlike Miyon, who had merely claimed to be. Andry remembered watching her hysterical tears through Donato’s unwilling eyes as she faced Ostvel at Dragon’s Rest and bleated her innocence. Rohan had chosen not to punish her—but neither she nor Miyon would be able to spit without his being notified of it. Such was the power of the High Prince, Andry told himself acidly.
Geir of Waes had died, some said from one of his own archer’s arrows. No one spared him another thought. But Chiana and Halian would not have the giving of Waes to another athri. Instead, it was to be organized as a free city, along the lines of Andrade’s own ancestral holding of Catha Freehold. The latter had reverted to Syr at her father’s death; Waes, having now no lord at all, would be chartered as a free city until and unless Rohan decided otherwise. Such was the power of the High Prince.
Thought of Syr brought a momentary softening to his face. Princess Gemma had that summer given Prince Tilal another son, and had asked Tobin’s permission to Name the boy Sorin. He was a lively child, fair-haired and gray-eyed; Andry had made a special trip to High Kirat to see him after the Rialla. The detour had also afforded him means to pretend he was on his way back to Goddess Keep. He had sent the majority of his party there, and himself headed into the Veresch.
This was one of the few nights he hadn’t slept out in the open. With gloves hiding his rings and armbands, and riding a rather undistinguished horse, he had gone mostly unnoticed. Strangers were always remarked on in the remoteness of the mountains, but as long as his hands were hidden and he’ made no verbal slips, who would know that it was the Lord of Goddess Keep who traveled by? And who would credit that a man of such exalted rank would be in the Veresch at all?
Nialdan and Valeda, his only companions, were similarly disguised. She had insisted that they find an inn that night, for Nialdan was sniffling in the first stages of a head cold. Andry was not fooled; she wanted to bed him in hopes of another child, even though Chayly wasn’t
even a year old yet. He had gently but firmly discouraged her at his door this evening—but now he wished he’d given in. It was cold and very dark and he was alone.
He found a few wood chips to stoke the brazier, and as he replaced its lid he stared at the pattern shining crimson and gold through the iron. Butterfly wings, like lace. Alasen had been choosing lace veils when he’d found her at Castle Crag.
The day Mireva’s corpse had burned to cinders on the steps of Stronghold, Andry used the sunshine streaming through the gardens to travel to Castle Crag. Alasen was alone. She knelt on the carpet of her bedchamber, sunlight glinting off gold and silver threads woven through some of the dozens of veils billowing around her. She lifted one to the sunshine, a fragile creation of blossom-pink and leaf-green, her face and her long hair shadowed by the trellis pattern as if she paused behind a garden’s climbing roses.
But her eyes were anxious, as if this gentle occupation was an attempted distraction from worry. The veil drifted to her knees and she bit her lip. Andry knew why she sat in the sunshine, and in private; she waited for word of the previous night’s battle. From Sioned, perhaps, or Maarken or Hollis. Certainly not from him.
He touched her as softly as possible. Still, her spine stiffened and her fingers clenched. She had no training in fending off his presence—yet the darkening of her colors in the sunlight told him she would have rejected him if she could.
Goddess greeting, my lady. Set your mind at rest—all is well. Ianthe’s son is dead, and the sorceress who helped him. Pol is safely the victor.
Alasen leaned forward into the light, relieved, eager for details. She didn’t know how to speak across the sunlight, but it was simplicity itself to discern her thoughts from her face.
The battle happened as planned—Sioned can tell you the rest, or you can wait until the official version at the Rialla. I’m here now only to ease your worries—and to beg a favor. Alasen—I need your help. There are more of these diarmadh’im hiding in the Veresch. They are the enemies of every Sunrunner, of every prince and princedom. If any of us is to be safe, these people must be found and dealt with. I need you to tell me what’s said in the precincts of Castle Crag—it was one of their fortresses long ago, there may still be many of them nearby. Perhaps even working in your keep, near your children day after day! I need rumors, legends, anything that might point to someone bearing the Old Blood. With Mireva and Ruval dead, they have no hope left for power—and yet often when there seems to be no hope people join together in one final—
Her face had changed during this reasoned plea. She stared upward at the window with horror darkening her green eyes and her lips moving soundlessly on the word No. It struck him to the heart to know how much she feared him.