She gathered herself and clamped down on Chiana’s readied mind. It was simplicity itself to turn her, fix her gaze on the mirror, draw her toward it. Mireva’s peripheral vision showed her Morlen’s slack-jawed stare of surprise, affording her momentary amusement. Chiana moved like a sleepwalking child.
Mireva concentrated, suddenly furious as her contact with Chiana increased and she saw that Marron had played on Chiana’s ambitions for her son. After all the effort it had taken to persuade the princess that Rinhoel’s claim was hopeless, Marron had insidiously undone her work, knowing Chiana’s lust would be the greater in her son’s cause alone. Doubtless he would have killed Rinhoel once Princemarch was safely in his hands. A clever plan—for which Chiana would be the one to pay.
The princess stood sightlessly before the mirror, her pale, soft, beringed hands lifted in tense fists. An instant later the mirror lay in blood-covered shards on the ground. Chiana’s mouth stretched in an unheard scream of pain and she fell to her knees amid the shattered glass, her fingers slashed to ribbons and dripping crimson.
Mireva watched a few moments longer from a narrow splinter of mirror, then withdrew. “Thus ever for those who disobey,” she murmured.
And the door of Meiglan’s bedchamber crashed open, the lock forced and the wood splintered, and three pairs of diarmadhi eyes transfixed her.
23
Stronghold: 34 Spring
The old woman acted with stunning speed. The effect of her sudden blaze of sorcerer’s power on their senses was devastating. Pol, Riyan, and Rialt were strong, athletic young men—but she ensnared them with her strange gray-green eyes and they had no more chance against her than newborn infants.
Rays of sunlight became swords of golden crystal plunging into their eyes. The very air turned to tiny needles tipped with acid stabbing their skin. Their own cries were transformed into black knives sinking into their skulls. And with these knives came unconsciousness—but not surcease from pain.
By the time sense returned to Pol’s lacerated mind, the old woman was gone and Ruala with her.
He gathered his legs under him, but his knees didn’t seem to be working right. Riyan was similarly sprawled nearby. Rialt, lacking the gifts that had made the attack much worse on the other two, was already on his feet. He gave Pol a hand up and steadied him when he tottered. “Gentle Goddess,” Pol breathed when he was sure his voice would hold steady. “What in all Hells was that?”
“Sorcery enough for her to escape with Lady Ruala,” Rialt said bitterly. “Are you all right, my lord?”
“I will be.” He helped Riyan to his feet. Rialt had started for the door. “We have to find them, though Goddess knows how much time they’ve had to disappear in.”
“Where do you suggest we look?” Riyan asked in bleak tones. “It’s hopeless, Pol. You and I both know from playing here as children that there are scores of places to hide in Stronghold.”
“Just follow the trail of felled servants and guards,” Rialt suggested.
Pol shook his head. “Once they’re out of here, the only person she’ll have to control is Ruala, to keep her quiet. Who’d look twice at a servant helping a lady to a place where she could rest?”
“Well, they can’t get out of the castle,” Rialt maintained. “Riyan’s order to the guardhouse—”
“She got past the three of us. What difficulty would a few guards pose? We could turn Stronghold inside out and not find them unless we were very, very lucky. You said yourself we have no way of knowing how much of a lead they’ve got.”
Rialt nodded unhappily. He went to a bedside table and poured wine from the pitcher, there. Pol glanced around, suddenly realizing whose chamber they were in. Meiglan lay in a froth of white silk and lace, looking as innocent as he had only yesterday believed her to be. He absently accepted a wine cup from Rialt and was just about to drink when Riyan dashed the goblet from his hand.
“Smell it,” he said, holding out his own cup. “I didn’t show much talent in medicine at Goddess Keep, but I learned how to recognize certain odors. One sip of that and you’d be laid out on the floor until noon.”
Not having inherited his mother’s nose for wine, Pol could detect nothing out of the ordinary. But he was more concerned with why the wine was drugged—and who it was meant for. He stared at Meiglan. She was barely breathing.
“She’s been drugged,” he said slowly. “But why?”
“Silence?” Rialt guessed. “She was removed from the Great Hall last night in hysterics. She might know something.”
“I don’t give a damn what she knows or doesn’t know!” Riyan’s patience had snapped. “Not when that diarmadhi witch has Ruala—”
“Hostages aren’t harmed until demands go unmet,” Pol said grimly.
“There’s another interesting thought,” Rialt added. “Why Lady Ruala? Why not you, my lord? You’re more valuable to a sorcerer undoubtedly in harness with Roelstra’s grandson. They could kill you outright and claim Princemarch.”
Pol was still gazing at Meiglan. “It has to be done publicly. I have to acknowledge Ruval’s right to challenge, then accept it prince to prince.”
“And by taking Ruala,” Riyan said with anguish thick in his voice, “he’s ensured your acceptance.”
“She’ll be safe enough until then.” Pol approached the bed. “Silence,” he said, echoing Rialt’s earlier suggestion.
The chamberlain nodded. “The old woman was one of her servants, brought from Cunaxa to Tiglath and now here. What is it Lady Meiglan can’t tell us as long as she’s drugged into a stupor?”
“And how long has she been so?” Pol lifted the girl’s wrist, felt the pulse flutter weakly like a tiny bird trapped within the delicate cage of bones. “Rialt, find one of my mother’s maids and have her keep watch in here. And post guards outside the door. No one is to enter this room, not even her own father. I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble from sorcery here, but when she wakes I don’t want anybody but one of us hearing what she has to say.”
“Not even her other serving woman?” Rialt asked.
“No.” He set down her hand and rose. “We’ll stay here until you return.”
“Very good, my lord.”
With Rialt gone, Pol turned to Riyan. “How did Ruala sense it, even before your rings began to burn?” he asked quietly.
“You know as well as I. And we both know something else, too.” Riyan held his gaze steadily.
Pol replied unwillingly, “We three felt it out in the hallway. Rialt did not—and I know very well he hasn’t a drop of Sunrunner blood. Either Ruala is one of us, a Sunrunner, or she and I are the same as you. Diarmadh’im.”
“The rings would argue for the latter.” Riyan spoke without emotion.
“Doesn’t it bother you that—”
“That she may be what I am? My mother was of the Old Blood. So was Urival. It’s not one of my prejudices,” he replied with a shrug.
“She must know what she is. Why hasn’t she said anything?”
“Wouldn’t you keep it secret?” Riyan would not look at him.
“Secrets are exactly what I’m concerned with. If this is true, and I really am—” He tried to keep his voice level.
“It can’t come from your mother, Pol. She’s full-blooded faradhi. Her rings don’t burn in the presence of sorcery.”
“She hasn’t worn any Sunrunner’s rings for as long as I’ve been alive. It might come from my father. And if it does, our whole family—” He pulled in a deep breath. “If they don’t know, how can I tell them? And if they do know, they’ve been lying to me my whole life. Keeping it secret. Secrets give power,” he quoted bitterly.