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  Meath nodded, cursed himself for not having done it before, and sent a light-weave across the narrow sea.

  Smoke billowed from the palace and the town below it. Bearded dark men were working very hard to keep the flames from spreading to the docks, which they would need for their own ships. At Graypearl itself, soldiers swarmed with cold systematic method through the gardens, slashing every bush to the root and hacking tree trunks clean through. There was no looting of the palace’s treasures, not even the taking of foodstuffs. Meath hovered closer to make sure, seeing through the collapsed kitchen wall that stores had been left to burn. As he understood war, it was waged for conquest, for revenge, but most of all for possession. Why capture a place if not to profit by what it contained?

  He returned his attention to the gardens, and saw what he had most feared. The oratory was blackened, burnt out, its glass in shards after exploding from the heat of the fire. The men approached it slowly, with something of dread in their eyes until one of them picked up a stone and threw it. Fragments of glass shattered. In an instant the rest rushed over the little bridge and began digging their swords into tiles already damaged by fire.

  Meath could not bear to watch any more. He set himself to an inspection of the little port, and found a thread of comfort when he saw that whenever one fire threatening the docks was put out, another sprang up almost immediately somewhere else. Someone understood that the place could not be left whole for enemy use. Someone worked with incredible stealth to set those new fires; Meath saw no one, as hard as he searched. He saluted them silently, and even tried to help a little, but the distance was great and he had never been much good at faraway workings. The unseen defenders must do it all on their own.

  Then something else occurred to him. There were no corpses. None of the Graypearl dead were visible. He sought through palace and port, seeing only the tall, fierce men with golden beads braided into their beards. No survivors. He wanted to believe all had escaped yet knew this was impossible. Where were they?

  Movement on the beach outside town caught his attention. A dark heap he had at first glance taken for piled driftwood suddenly took on other shapes, other colors: the black and gray and brown and blue of concealing cloaks. But there were also bare, blistered arms and legs; charred faces; dead staring eyes. A clean-shaven man wearing elaborate robes and a towering headpiece that was half-helmet, half-crown strode across the beach to the stacked bodies, his lips moving in rapid speech. He threw fistfuls of sand onto the corpses and flung his head back with his mouth open in a triumphant howl. As last he lit a torch and set fire to the dead.

  Flames caught on silk and thin wool and something—someone—moved.

  Meath fled the island, sick with pain. He turned west down woven sunlight to Gilad. Lord Segelin’s castle was a gutted ruin. There were no dead piled here, no remnants of a ritual pyre. It was as if Seahold had been empty for generations. It was the same for many measures inland, and the same at Faolain Riverport—and it was elementary strategy that it would soon be the same at Lowland as well. He fled over the farmlands between the river and Radzyn, pastures whose traditional enemy was the encroaching silent sand. The great towered keep was a hive of activity as it was readied for war; the port town was emptying of its citizens, all of them hurrying for the castle with nothing more than what they could carry on their backs.

  But some had stayed behind. Masts were hacked from the ships at anchor, a forest of them toppling into the water and their heavy sails, rolled up for the winter, thrown in with them from the decks. The harbormaster, identifiable by the Radzyn badge on his breast, directed these operations, saving the ships from total destruction but rendering them useless to the invaders, and Meath grieved with him as he suddenly covered his face with his hands.

  Only one ship stayed whole. It was already moving away from the port, a small vessel with a single huge triangular sail, heading due south for the Small Islands. Of all the ships at Radzyn port, this one alone would survive intact. Meath hoped Chay was right in not burning the rest—and then realized why he had not ordered that done. As fiery hulks they would be symbols of defeat and would take the heart from Chay’s people before the battle had even begun. But this way there was a promise for the future—that there would be a future in which masts and sails would rise again on Radzyn’s proud fleet.

  Meath felt his own heart easing as he returned to the island. He reported to Chadric what he had seen, adding that he did not believe the enemy would be able to leave Graypearl before tomorrow at the earliest. The prince demanded particulars and, agreeing with Meath, almost smiled. But when he tried to gloss over the damage to the palace, Chadric leveled a grim gaze on him and waited.

  Audrite, who had joined them, cried out softly when she heard about the oratory. It had been her life’s work, the expression in stone and tile and glass of her elegant, precise mind. She sat down in the sand and wept.

  “Peace, my love.” Chadric stroked her graying hair. “We’re alive and soon we’ll be safe. That is enough.”

  Meath made what he knew had to be his final effort of that day and found Sioned in the courtyard at Radzyn. The cool, quiet depth of her colors soothed him, even though darkness shaded their edges like soot.

  Tomorrow perhaps, but certainly the next day, Sioned. Will you be ready?

  We’ll have to be, won’t we? I haven’t had time to see things for myself. What is it like, Meath?

  They aren’t interested in taking. Only in destroying.

  Andry seems to think they’re diarmadh’im. But if so, why not use the gifts? Why rely on flint and steel for their fire?

  Capture one and when I get to Radzyn, we’ll question him together.

  He felt a ripple of bleak laughter. You’ll have to stand in line behind Rohan and Chay and Maarken—not to mention Pol.

  Sioned—if they really are sorcerers—

  We’ll deal with that when the time comes. By the way, my dear old friend, have I ever thanked you enough for finding the Star Scroll?

  He returned at last to where Chadric and Audrite and the others waited for him. He was so tired that after telling them Sioned had been informed of the situation at Graypearl, he simply wilted onto a blanket spread for him in the sand. But he could not sleep, though he closed his eyes and pretended for the others’ benefit. He could not rid his mind of an image of Sunrunners gathering to construct around Radzyn a dome of pallid, nearly invisible Fire, against which the invading enemy would smash its strength like waves on stubborn stone. It was too late to wish he’d learned the same—that he was more powerful and clever—that he could have done something, anything, to save Graypearl.

  • • •

  Andry could not allow himself the luxury of exhaustion. There was too much to do.

  He had allies now besides Evarin—but they were not those he would have chosen. He had encountered Rohan’s Medr’im, five youths of good birth and sufficiently accomplished at warfare to have dispatched the dozen enemy soldiers guarding the Pyrme River crossing. The astonishment of Andry’s unwanted escort when he and Evarin quickly resumed their true faces was equal to the amazement of young Lord Gerwen at recognizing the Lord of Goddess Keep. The first did not survive long enough to express himself.

  Gerwen pulled his sword from the corpse, introduced himself and his men briefly, then glanced back down with distaste. “Throw him in the river. He’ll float down to where they can see him, and know that they’re not unopposed in their slaughters.” As the others did his bidding, he turned to Andry. “My Lord, I’m glad to find you safe and well—but you’re the very last person I expected to see. The Goddess was thinking ahead when she put me by way of helping set up your tent at the Rialla this year.”

  “Otherwise you’d be launching me, too. Is the way clear across the river?”

  “You would know that better than I, my Lord.”

  Andry arched his brows at the pointed hint. But he was grateful for the reminder that he was now free to work. “Keep watch,” was
all he said as he let his body take care of staying in the saddle while his mind wove the clean, fierce sunlight.

  There were no interruptions. He came back to himself at last, bone-weary and refusing to acknowledge it, and saw that the shadows had lengthened substantially.

  He told in spare sentences about the disasters at Faolain Riverport and Graypearl and Gilad Seahold. But there was worse news.

  “A fleet of those dragon-headed ships hovers off Kierst-Isel. I think what they might be after is to capture that island as they did Dorval, then use it as a base to attack Einar, Waes, and Goddess Keep.”

  Response to this speculation surprised him. He knew Gerwen to have a sister married to a Waesian merchant so prosperous he could have bought and sold most athr’im; of the others, one had been introduced as the younger brother of an important landholder in the region of Einar. But though all five were deeply disturbed by Andry’s words, and the pair most directly involved paled visibly, not one suggested that they ride at once to assist in defending lands in which they had a personal stake.

  Andry had never approved of the Medr’im, though they had been his own father’s idea. He saw in them a direct challenge to a traditionally Sunrunner function—neutral observers who reported to the Lord or Lady any infractions of the greater law. He was skeptical about their uses as roving enforcers of the High Prince’s Writ; he suspected that their devotion to the law was in fact devotion to their own importance, their pretty blue uniforms, and perhaps to Rohan for giving them something to do with themselves.

  Their reactions now proved him wrong, at least about this group. Gerwen gave Andry a level look and said, “Your safety is more important, my Lord. We won’t leave you. And I know you’ll give warning in time.”

  Andry had not expected this degree of respect and faith from persons committed to Rohan. Perhaps things between them weren’t as bad as he’d thought.

  Evarin was eyeing the river nervously. “Forgive me for saying so, but you’d better do the rest of your Sunrunning before we cross that, my Lord.”

  It wasn’t meant to be funny, but Andry laughed anyway. The Medr’im joined in, especially when the Master Physician pulled an affronted face. And for once Andry had no quarrel with a joke at the expense of Sunrunner dignity.

  “The raft’s only big enough for two, with horses,” Andry said. “I won’t be good for much after I’m on the other side, as Evarin so tactfully pointed out. He can go first, while I work.”

  “Very good, my Lord. Donaseld, help him.”

  The physician, already a little green around the edges, led his horse onto the raft and squatted down, one hand gripping his reins and the other tight around the low railing. Donaseld steered the raft with a large rudder to spare straining the guide ropes. Andry saw Evarin struggle for a moment, then give up and lean over to part company with his last meal.

  Andry informed Prince Volog through his court Sunrunner of the disasters on the continent and the threat to his own shores. It came as no surprise. Pol had already surveyed the area and given warning. Andry was glad enough that his cousin had been busy. The faradh’im at Waes and Einar had been similarly advised by Pol. But, being Andry’s people, they wanted word from him alone about what to do. Am I a warrior, to tell you how to make ready for battle? Ask the High Prince or my cousin Pol! It annoyed him that he must defer to them, but he had little choice. His devr’im could not work at such distances, even had he been at Goddess Keep to lead them. It was galling to know that for all his preparations, he was still helpless.

  But at least he could save Radzyn. He spoke with Torien at Goddess Keep, explaining his surmises and his intention to continue on to his parents’ home.

  There are Sunrunners enough there to use in its defense, Torien admitted, but will they submit to your direction?

  If they don’t, the castle will be lost. Whatever else he may be, Pol is no fool. Sioned will keep him in line—and so will Maarken if it comes to it. I won’t need him that badly. There’s strength enough among the others. You’ll have to lead the defenses there, Torien. Don’t begin too early, and don’t wear yourselves out. They must be taught that Goddess Keep cannot be taken, but I’m afraid it’s going to be a very long war for the rest of the continent.

  We’ll do all right. Have a care to yourself, Andry. If we lose you, everything is lost.

  I have five zealous guardians dedicated to my safety. Give the children a kiss for me. And have you heard anything of Brenlis? I—

  An urgent hand on his arm brought him back to the Pyrme.

  “Hurry, my Lord! Another patrol is coming!”

  There was no hiding place. For a full measure north and south of the crossing the trees were sparse. The soldiers cresting the western hills into the river valley were mostly on foot, but armed with heavy bows and swords that glinted in the sunlight.

  “Donaseld!” Andry shouted across the river. “Hurry! Don’t wait for us—ride for Radzyn!”

  The raft was just sliding into the sandy shallows. The Medri glanced around and waved. He grinned and pointed to Evarin, who sagged over the rail.

  “Donaseld!” Andry called again. “Damn it, he doesn’t hear me—”

  Gerwen possessed a voice that could crumble stone at half a measure. “Make for Radzyn!” And he flung an arm toward the hills where the enemy was advancing at speed.

  Donaseld saw the danger, lost his smile, and leaped from the raft into the water. He hauled his horse after him, then Evarin’s, and finally picked up the Sunrunner bodily and threw him across a saddle. Donaseld mounted, grabbed Evarin’s reins, and they were off as fast as he dared, with the half-conscious faradhi slung over the horse’s back.

  Andry turned to Gerwen. “You ride with me for Goddess Keep. The others can draw them off and meet up with us later. Quickly!”

  There was an instant of hesitation, but Andry had been right to count on the authority of his rings. That perhaps there was some influence attached to him through his kinship to Rohan and Pol received grudging acknowledgment, but at this point he didn’t much care. He needed their obedience and how he got it was unimportant. Perhaps the fact that he called Fire to the raft and it went up in unnaturally fierce flames had something to do with it, as well.

  “Right,” said Gerwen. “Donaseld will take good care of your physician, my Lord. Fendal, Kersion, Zadeen, take the north road to that ford at the Kadar.”

  Andry didn’t wait to watch. He galloped off, with Gerwen right behind him on a Radzyn gelding as swift as his own Tibaza. He never once looked back over his shoulder to see how many were following him—a confidence instilled by absolute faith in his father’s horses. It was only when Gerwen called to him that he drew rein.

  “They’ve given up on us, my Lord.”

  He stroked his stallion’s lathered neck. “I’ll have a look,” he said, and once again wove strands of sunlight. Evarin and Donaseld were well away from the river; the physician was now properly seated in his saddle, but had wrapped both arms around his horse’s neck, hanging on with grim determination. There was no pursuit. Ten or twelve bearded men stood trapped on the river’s west bank, cursing and furious. But then a body floated past the burning raft, wearing Desert blue. The face turned empty-eyed to the sky was that of Zadeen.

  Andry followed the course of the river upstream to where it met the Kadar, then traced the greater river to possible fordings. He was just in time to witness the charge of six mounted soldiers. Fendal and Kersion could not risk swimming their horses across now—arrows would bring them down all too easily. Andry hesitated only an instant, then called on the disciplines he himself had worked into a code of spells culled from the Star Scroll.

  It was hard work, doing it alone. He had to be careful to leave no chinks in places he was accustomed to having others build for him while he supervised the whole. But he did it, as Sioned had done something like it long ago, and at a distance much greater than this. He wove the ros’salath in the space between the oncoming charge and the two men who ha
d turned to defend themselves.

  Had the situation been any less desperate, the sight might have been hilarious. The enemy slammed up against the weaving as if it were an invisible stone wall. Their beards parted in screams Andry could not hear, but could well imagine. They fell from their stolen mounts and huddled on the ground with their arms over their heads, still shrieking in horror at what they had seen and felt on contact with that wall.

  Fendal and Kersion, prepared to wield their swords in a fight for their lives, instead saw their adversaries topple to the dirt screaming like terrified children. Fendal was the first to recover, slapping his companion on the arm and digging his heels into his horse’s ribs. Andry hissed in frustration as the pair started forward to finish off the helpless soldiers rather than doing the smart thing and fording the river.

  He had two choices: let the ros’salath fade, or let the two bump against it from the inside. Some deep unexpected part of him cried out against being the indirect cause of deaths—for through his skills he had rendered the enemy easy prey. It was a thing forbidden ever since Lady Merisel’s time, the most solemn vow a Sunrunner swore. Andrade’s face rose up in his memory, stern and implacable and ready to condemn him if he shattered his promise.

  But she was long dead. He was Lord of Goddess Keep now, and his was the right to judge. Using his gifts he had killed before, destroying the man who had murdered his twin brother Sorin. Surely this was even more justified. Andrade would never even have guessed at the horrors Andry had seen that day.

  And the choice the Medr’im made to fall upon and kill unhorsed men was none of his doing. He was not responsible.

  He allowed the woven spell to crumble, and did not stay to watch as the soldiers were slaughtered. Instead he informed Gerwen in terse syllables that Fendal and Kersion would shortly be joining them.

  • • •

  The sunlight was thick with Sunrunners all that afternoon. While the light held, news went forth from Goddess Keep and Radzyn to all courts and holdings with faradh’im in residence, and to the itinerants who traveled the farther reaches where settlements were few and far between. The concept of invasion was so unthinkable that many simply failed to react, and then refused to believe. But the authority of High Princess Sioned, Prince Pol, and the Chief Steward of Goddess Keep must ultimately be trusted. The incredible was accepted as true.