Stronghold Page 14

  Rohan pressed her palm to his cheek, his eyes closed. “Don’t let me forget to tell you how much I love you,” he said. “Ten times a day, at least.”

  “Only ten?” She bent to kiss his brow. “Rest now, beloved. I won’t be gone long.”

  “Where d’you think you’re—” He fought in vain against the sleep she wove around him. “Not fair,” he mumbled, eyelids drooping.

  “No, but necessary,” she murmured, and kissed him again, and he slept.

  • • •

  Had Andry’s twin brother Sorin lived to rule Feruche for more than the few brief years the Goddess had allotted him, Betheyn would have been his lady. It had been their intention to wed at the Rialla of 728. Instead, he had been murdered that spring.

  They had met while Faolain Riverport was abuilding in the mid-720s. He had been invited there to give the benefit of his advice, for in the reconstruction of Feruche much had been learned about the use of iron that the Riverport architect wanted to know. Together Sorin and Master Wentyn spent long, happy days drawing plans and constantly revising them to improve the strength and the aesthetics of the new town.

  But Sorin was never so busy that he hadn’t found time to appreciate Wentyn’s pretty daughter. There had been no instant understanding between them, no ricsina, the knife that pierces the heart, as so many others in his family had found. Rather it was a slow, quiet, comfortable thing, made clear to him only on his return to Feruche, when he found himself missing her more than mere friendship could explain.

  After Sorin’s death by sorcery, Andry—his only confidant in the matter—told their mother about the girl. A special trip to Riverport had been arranged before the Rialla that year. Tobin and Chay understood on first meeting Betheyn what Sorin had valued so much. When her father died the next autumn, they invited her to come live with them at Radzyn. There she had continued for the next eight years, returning their love and regard, treated by them and the rest of the family as the daughter she would have been had Sorin lived.

  When Sioned went back into Tobin’s chamber, Betheyn was seated beside the bed, reading. The young woman glanced up at hearing someone come in and rose, leaving her book on the chair.

  “She sleeps easily now, my lady,” Betheyn murmured. “It’s not that blank unconsciousness anymore, thank the Goddess.”

  “You’ve been sitting with her a long time, my dear. Why don’t you go get some rest? No, I didn’t have myself in mind to stay with her—I think while she sleeps Tobren can watch.”

  “It’s no hardship, my lady.” Betheyn gestured to the book. “I’m occupied, and I’d rather be here.”

  Sioned smiled. Tobin had always wanted a daughter; Maarken had brought her Hollis, and now she had Betheyn as well. It occurred to her that, fond as she had become of Meiglan, she would never think of the girl in those terms. It was an unworthy thought, and Meiglan didn’t deserve it, but there it was.

  She went to a table near the windows and looked over the little collection of medicines brought up with Tobin’s book of simples. Sioned leafed through a few pages, seeing marginal notes in Tobin’s untidy scrawl, Milar’s precise script, even the thick strokes of Andrade’s pen. That last brought an unexpected stinging to her eyes. Ridiculous; anytime she chose she could call up memory of Andrade’s vibrant colors, a signature more evocative than a few lines of ink on parchment. But she did not often choose. Her emotions were too complex for easy remembrance of the woman who had taught her, brought her to the Desert to marry a prince, disapproved of her, chided her, loved her, and finally died trying to keep Pol safe.

  Sioned wondered suddenly who would one day read her own book of simples—not a tame and commonplace volume like this one, but the translated copy of the Star Scroll secreted in her office. There were copious notes in those margins in her own hand, Urival’s, and Morwenna’s. Perhaps Jihan or Rislyn would study them one day. They were diarmadhi, both of them, though Rislyn was a Sunrunner as well. But sometimes Sioned thought that she would be doing them both a favor by destroying the scroll before they even learned of its existence.

  She gave a start at Betheyn’s soft touch on her arm. “My lady, what troubles you? It isn’t just Princess Tobin.”

  “Ah, I’ve been obvious. I should know better—but I suppose it’s because I’m tired.” She made herself smile to allay Betheyn’s doubts, so obvious on her gentle face. “Don’t worry, Beth. Too long a ride and too much worry to find sleep just yet.”

  The quiet eyes held steady. “I believe it’s more.”

  The words were spoken before she knew what she would say. “It’s . . . it’s that we’re growing older. Time sneaks up on us. And one day it will steal the people I love.” Events had stolen so many: Andrade, Milar, Maarken’s twin Jahni, Maeta, Camigwen, Sorin. Urival’s had been a soft passing, as had those of her brother Davvi and old Prince Lleyn. But the rest—Plague, sorcery, murder had been their lot. She felt old with the years they had not lived, that they had been cheated of, that she had survived without them.

  Goddess, how morbidly her thoughts turned today—and without cause. Tobin was going to get better.

  Betheyn replied, “I don’t think it’s time that steals. It’s life that takes what we’re unwilling to give. But life is all we have, and time to live it in.”

  Half my age and twice as wise, Sioned thought. “You’re right, of course. How bitter it would be to treat either life or time as an enemy.” She smiled again and started for the door. “I’ll be back later. Be sure you get some sleep, Beth.”

  “Yes, my lady. Gentle dreams.”

  But Sioned did not return to the room where Rohan slept. She climbed the stairs to the curtain wall between towers and watched the sunset. Fire on Water—the stuff of conjurings and visions. Perhaps Andry had something after all in his idea of looking into the future. Sioned had herself glimpsed things long before they happened. Was it possible for a faradhi so gifted—and not all were—to court visions of the future? With dranath to augment power, and some mental and emotional discipline, it might become a reliable talent.

  Yet if Sunrunners could foretell the future, would their lives be safe? Who would not scheme to gain control of such a person? And who among the faradh’im was strong and honorable and wise enough to use a gift like that?

  But there was a more important question against which her tired mind had no defenses. She thought back over the events of her life—glorious successes and terrible losses—and wondered, If I knew the future, would I have the courage to live it?

  Her sense of humor did not rescue her, but mockery did. She had lived a life about which bards made songs—some of them even partly true. What right had she to feel sorry for herself? The only thing wrong with me is selfishness. I’m growing old and one day the future’s going to happen without me.

  “I thought you might be up here,” said a quiet voice behind her.

  She did not turn, merely reached back one hand. It was grasped in hard, callused fingers. “Hollis isn’t as good at sleep-weaving as she should be,” she said.

  “She is, though. But I pretended and she went away.” Chay stood beside her, holding her hand. “Beth says you’re upset and wouldn’t talk to her about it.”

  “Just moody. And tired. There’s nothing to worry about, Chay. Tobin’s going to get well.”

  He nodded. They watched the sea for a long time in silence, until he said, “Looks like something a Sunrunner would conjure, doesn’t it? The wind’s stiff tonight—whitecaps from here to the Small Islands, like little flames.”

  “I was thinking the same thing.”

  “Flames, or ripples of blood,” he mused, then shook himself. “Goddess, what an idea. Maybe I need sleep more than I thought.”

  “Come inside, then,” she told him, tugging at his hand. “And don’t think you’ll be able to pretend with me.”

  A sudden smile took thirty years from his face. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  • • •

  Pol arrived two days l
ater, greeted by his parents’ astonishment and the joyous news that his aunt was able to speak a few words and move a little. He came laden with wildflowers gathered along the road and once he saw Tobin awake, aware, and recovering, happily dumped them all in her lap.

  You impossible boy! came her laughing voice on sunlight, and he nearly lost his balance at the shock. That damned seizure didn’t kill me, but now I may sneeze myself to death!

  Pol gaped. Her colors danced playfully around him and her black eyes sparkled with mirth.

  Oh, stop looking so grim, you foolish child, and give me a kiss. She fumbled for a moss rose with her good hand and admired its sheen in the sunlight spilling across the bed. Beautiful. Thank you, Pol. I hope you brought some for your mother—she’s the one who thought of this, so I can speak to you. I can’t tell you what it was like, being trapped inside my own skull. Her gaze sobered and he knelt beside the bed, weak-kneed. But I’m better. See? I can move my other hand and even bend my leg a little.

  The sheets shifted at her knees and her right hand crawled across the lace. He caught her fingers and smiled. You’re amazing.

  I always have been.

  Her smile broke his heart. One side of her face was still perfect, the corner of her mouth curving and her brow lifting just as always, but the other dragged down, unresponsive.

  “Would you care to explain why you’re here?” Rohan asked suddenly.

  He was grateful for the distraction, not wishing Tobin to see his anguish, and rose to face his father. “I had a look in at Stronghold a few days ago and found Morwenna, who naturally had to tell me where you were going and why. So here I am.”

  “She didn’t say anything before we left.”

  “Stop treating him as if he was still fifteen,” Chay said. “He’s here, and welcome.”

  “Well, of course,” Sioned agreed. “But I think yours is too volatile a presence at the moment, Pol—not to mention a filthy one! Go wash and change clothes. You stink of horse and sweat.”

  Ah, so that’s why the flowers—to hide the stench! came Tobin’s shimmering thought, and Pol grinned down at her.

  Not fifteen, he remarked. Five. He gave her an elaborate bow, kissed his mother, and left the room.

  Immediately outside in the hallway he encountered Daniv, Dannar, and a blonde, blue-eyed girl he didn’t know. The first two were comparing stories of the journey to Radzyn. The latter tagged along listening with downcast gaze. They stopped on seeing him and performed the usual respects. He replied with a grimace, having as little use for ceremony as the rest of his family—except when it suited him.

  “Goddess, such elegance!” he teased. “And I assume you’re beggaring my parents, Daniv, by eating everything in sight at Stronghold.”

  “I do my best, my lord,” the young man said, grinning.

  “I don’t doubt it. Dannar—this could get confusing, two similar names—go save my dignity and run a bath for me before my mother throws me in a trough.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Daniv offered. “You can tell me all about that beauty you rode in on. I’ve been hinting to my father for years to buy me a Dragon’s Rest gold for my knighting.”

  The two boys went off talking horses, leaving Pol with the little girl. She glanced up at him with frank curiosity and he suddenly realized who she must be. The eyes were unmistakable. “It seems I’m not the only one with pretty blonde daughters,” he told her. “We haven’t met, Tobren. I’m your cousin, Pol.”

  “I know, your grace,” she said in a soft, low voice.

  “Oh, you don’t have to call him that, Tobren,” Betheyn said behind him. He turned and smiled a greeting. “It’s nice to see you again,” she went on. “How was the journey?”

  “My mother’s ordered me into the nearest bathtub immediately. Beth, you’ve gotten uglier again.”

  “Many thanks, your grace,” she replied, then winked at Tobren. “You only have to call him that if he’s being horrid or you want to make fun of him.” Tobren looked slightly shocked. Beth said to Pol, “She is pretty, isn’t she? And so tall! Just twelve, three whole years younger than her cousin Chayla, but the same height.” She ruffled the child’s hair fondly.

  “How do you like Radzyn and Whitecliff so far, Tobren?”

  “Very much, my lord.” She hesitated. “Is that what I’m to call you?”

  “I’d be pleased if you’d call me by my name.”

  “I don’t think that would be right, my lord,” she said seriously.

  “As you like,” he said with a smile, but wondered what Andry had told her about him that she was so wary.

  Betheyn caught his gaze. “Jeni must have been disappointed that she couldn’t come along with your parents and hear about Goddess Keep from Tobren. I hear she’s trying to convince her parents to send her there.”

  It was news to Pol that his mother’s current fosterling, Camigwen of Castle Crag, wanted to be a Sunrunner. “She has the gifts?”

  “Their court Sunrunner thinks so. But Jeni’s mother wants her to spend some time at Stronghold first.”

  Pol could well imagine. Alasen and Ostvel would be reluctant to send their daughter to Andry for training; the complexity of reasons was not something they could detail to the girl. How did one go about explaining that the Lord of Goddess Keep had been in love with her mother, and had once threatened her father’s life because of it?

  Tobren proved herself the child of her father by saying, “If she’s gifted, it’s her duty to be trained as a Sunrunner. Not to use the powers to the fullest is an offense against the Goddess.”

  “I agree,” Pol said. “And I’m sure my mother will begin Jeni’s education this winter.”

  Tobren caught her breath. “But that’s wrong!” she cried. “My father teaches faradh’im! If you’re not trained by him at Goddess Keep, you’re not a real Sunrunner at all!”

  Betheyn met Pol’s eyes with a meaningful look. So this was what she’d wanted him to know about Tobren, he thought, and gave the girl an easy smile and a conspiratorial wink. “So I’ve always suspected. When my mother was teaching me how to conjure with Fire, she often told me I was hopeless!”

  Tobren was still frowning. Pol wondered again what sort of tales Andry had told her about him; seldom did the family charm and his father’s smile fail.

  “My lord!” Dannar called from up the next flight of stairs. “Your bath’s going cold!”

  Radzyn boasted only a few real bathrooms, and these were for its regular noble residents and the suite kept for the High Prince. Most of the castlefolk—including Pol that night—bathed in portable tubs and had to be careful not to slosh too much water on the floor. He had been scolded more than once in boyhood for his playfulness in the bath. Being Desert-born, he delighted in water—as long as it wasn’t something he had to cross. Rohan had never gotten over his wary nervousness of rain, but years at Dragon’s Rest had accustomed Pol to downpours and even thunderstorms.

  By the time he had washed and rinsed and stood draped in a thick robe, the priceless Cunaxan carpet was sopped. He helped Dannar hang it over the window ledge to dry, then suffered himself to be prettied up to the squire’s exacting standards. The dark violet tunic sewn with silver thread was paired with a snowy silk shirt above white trousers and short black boots. On his fingers were the moonstone that had been Lady Andrade’s—his only Sunrunner ring—and the amethyst-and-topaz of Princemarch. The latter combination was repeated in the silver earring that swung close to his jaw.

  “My, my,” Rohan drawled when Pol entered the small family dining room. “What a gorgeous vision has graced us this evening. Tell me, my son, how long does it take to polish you up? You arrived a mere mortal like the rest of us.”

  Hollis arched a brow. “You don’t give him much in that quarter, my lord High Prince.”

  Maarken grinned over his wine cup. “It always irks her that she can never make me jealous. But how can I be, when she only flirts with men who are disgustingly in love with their wives?” />
  Pol took his cue—behave as if this were any dinner—and laughed. “We’re all gorgeous this evening. Especially you, Mother.”

  “Borrowed from Hollis,” she confessed, smoothing pale green skirts decorated with black lace. “It’s nice to know I still have a waistline.”

  “Which my cooks are attempting to ruin, by the look of the table,” Chay said. “Let’s sit down. I’m starving. You boys take your places, too—my people will serve tonight.”

  It was a rare treat for squires to be included with the grown-ups at table; they usually carved and carried all through a meal, and ate afterward. Daniv handed Tobren gallantly into her chair, doubtless dreaming of a time when he would preside over his own table as Prince of Syr at the splendid castle of High Kirat. The rest took their places at the square table, an arrangement more intimate than sitting all in a row at the high table downstairs. Instead of leaning across one’s neighbor to conduct a conversation, all one had to do was talk across the napery, plates, and flowers. Still, there were advantages to a formal meal at a long table; one could sit at a distance from people one disliked or wished to avoid.

  Chay put Betheyn beside him, then looked at the empty place to his right. Pol saw his throat work convulsively. Then he said, “Tobren, you come sit over here by me, sweetheart.”

  It was Tobin’s place and her namesake knew it. She blushed, hesitating, and Dannar quickly rose and escorted her to the indicated seat. Chay leaned back in his chair, beamed at them all, and announced, “How I do love being surrounded by pretty girls!”

  With Tobren present, there could be no talk of politics regarding Goddess Keep. Rohan held forth with great enthusiasm on the subject of water clocks and the fascinating glass lenses his crafters were making until Sioned stuffed a wedge of bread in his mouth to shut him up. Maarken steered the conversation to the ever-popular subject of horses. It wasn’t until taze and sweets were handed around and the servants were gone that Hollis brought up dragons.

  “Abisel seemed rather fretful when she flew by a few days ago,” she reported. “Friendly, but preoccupied. Is Azhdeen well? Did you get any odd feelings from him, Pol?”