Sunrunner's Fire Part 22

"So do I." He spun her around twice so that her green gown flared, then stood behind her with his hands on her waist again. "But I don't think he's counting on her her reaction to reaction to me. me."

Sionell gave him a startled glance over her shoulder. "Why, you vain, self-centered, conceited-"

Pol only laughed. "Don't be redundant, Ell!"

For an instant as the dance ended he pulled her back against him. Then he surrendered her to his father before sauntering over to claim Meiglan right out from under Chay's nose.

"He's making a complete fool of himself," Rohan muttered as a country dance began. "After Tilal and Kostas fought over Gemma, he told me to kick him if he displayed the same imbecility. I have the feeling my boot will connect with his backside rather soon."

Sionell picked up her skirts to execute quick, complicated steps, then placed her hands once more in his. "He knows she's unsuitable and that Miyon brought her here on purpose."

"Did he tell you as much?" When she nodded, he smiled. "You made very sure he realized it, didn't you? Good girl. Still . . . I wonder."

The ladies again separated from their partners for individual footwork. This was Sionell's favorite dance and she was very good at it. But as she whirled around she caught sight of Meiglan, frozen in place and mortified by her lack of knowledge. Pol wore his most charming smile as he demonstrated the steps. The girl hardly dared breathe.

Sionell was a little late in clasping Rohan's fingers again. He was adroit in covering the mistake and, mercifully, said nothing.

Miyon beckoned several of his servants to him as the dance ended. A gesture had them clearing a s.p.a.ce at the end of the Great Hall, only ten or so paces from the huge doors. Tables were pushed against the side walls, chairs were stacked atop them, and into the area thus provided was brought an immense stringed instrument.

"Knowing Prince Pol's fondness for music," he said with a silken smile, "I thought he might enjoy listening to our Cunaxan fenath. fenath." Then, imperiously, "Meiglan!"

Sionell's fists clenched on the folds of her gown as the girl turned white. Exhausted by the long ride, stunned at recognizing Pol as the man in her dream, edgy with the strain of a formal dinner in the Great Hall of Stronghold, and humiliated by her ignorance of dancing, the last thing the girl needed was a command to perform on this huge and aptly named "string wall." Sionell was furious with herself for underestimating Prince Miyon.

Meiglan moved woodenly toward the instrument, walking the entire length of the chamber from the high table where everyone had resumed their chairs, the eyes of a hundred and more servants and retainers on her from where they stood along the walls. She approached the harp, hesitating, then circled around it so she faced the high table.

The instrument was obviously an expensive one; Sionell could see that even though she knew next to nothing about music. The frame was made of polished Cunaxan pine inlaid with gold and enamelwork, the tuning pegs decorated with pearlsh.e.l.l. Higher at one end than the height of a very tall man and narrowing to barely an arm's length, it rested on a cushioned stand that elevated the shorter end and kept its strings in reach. But it was still wider than anyone's outstretched arms and looked impossible to play.

Meiglan checked the tuning, nodded to herself, and drew six slim little hammers from a velvet pouch hung at the tallest end of the harp. Arranging them between her fingers, three to each hand, she cast an anxious glance toward the high table and bit her lip.

Miyon let the silence drag out, then said, "In times past, the fenath fenath would be tuned to a single chording and set outside for the wind to play. Most people now use the lowest strings for one chord, the middle for another, and the high for yet a third." would be tuned to a single chording and set outside for the wind to play. Most people now use the lowest strings for one chord, the middle for another, and the high for yet a third."

Andry nodded. "It was also used before a battle."

Raised brows greeted this piece of information. "You know about the fenath, fenath, my lord?" my lord?"

Andry gave a half-smile. "It was left at the top of a windy hill and tuned to a terrible a.s.sonance that sc.r.a.ped enemy nerves raw. I'm confident that the Lady Meiglan will show us its gentler music."

"Certainly. There is no battle being waged here." Miyon showed his teeth. Then he snapped his fingers at his daughter. "Begin!"

A few notes ventured timidly into the silent Hall, trembling with the tremor of Meiglan's hands. Another chord, struck wrong-then suddenly there was a ripple of music, sweet and clear as new rain down a green hillside creek. The tune danced around and beneath and through an undercurrent of delicate chords. Meiglan began to sway gently back and forth as the notes flowed from strings low and high, skirts swinging in time to her music.

A breathless enchantment equal to a Sunrunner's power darted through the evening air. Beyond the strings and the swift, graceful hands Meiglan's face was glowing, soft, fully alive. Some women might save a face such as this for a lover, for a coveted jewel, for a dream fulfilled, for a life's pa.s.sion. Thus did Sioned's eyes shine when they rested on her husband, or when she wove sunlight for the sheer joy of the flight. Faradh'im Faradh'im knew what spells they cast and the effects of their art. This girl had no consciousness of anyone but herself. A small aloneness was Meiglan, an isolated island of solitary magic. knew what spells they cast and the effects of their art. This girl had no consciousness of anyone but herself. A small aloneness was Meiglan, an isolated island of solitary magic.

A slow movement tugged Sionell's gaze around. Pol had risen to his feet, hands braced on the table, body canted slightly forward. His lips were parted and his eyes were fixed on the slender, swaying form that brought forth such music, such incredible music.

The strings sang one last graceful chord, ending with a single high, pure note.

"My precious treasure," Miyon said, smiling.

Chapter Seventeen.

Castle Crag: 30 Spring.

Late for an appointment with her steward, Alasen hurried down the hall from the nursery. Dannar was teething, and reacted to the usual salves with roars of outrage that turned his comical little face redder than his hair. The only sure way of settling him down was a song from his father, but Ostvel had already been up half the night with the child so the rest of the castle could get some sleep. Their youngest possessed a truly remarkable set of lungs and wasn't shy about using them.

"I'm getting too old for this," Ostvel had sighed when he finally came to bed at dawn. "At least the girls waited until they could walk before they started running the keep. It can't just be that he's male-Riyan never screeched like that."

Alasen's talk with the steward was directly related to the screeching; there had to be someone someone else at Castle Crag who could sing Dannar to sleep. She rounded a corner and started for the stairway, then broke into a run as she heard her daughters' voices in excellent imitation of their little brother. else at Castle Crag who could sing Dannar to sleep. She rounded a corner and started for the stairway, then broke into a run as she heard her daughters' voices in excellent imitation of their little brother.

The shrieks that echoed to the rafters did not unduly alarm her, for giggles soon followed. But she knew her girls and was positive that disaster was imminent for some part of the keep. Camigwen and Milar were themselves indestructible, as last winter's exploit involving a chandelier and a ladder had proved.

Now, instead of two small figures swinging merrily from a ceiling fixture, Alasen was presented with an impromptu sledding party on the stairs. A gigantic silver bowl meant to hold an entire night's portion of soup had been pressed into service. The handles were gripped in Jeni's determined fists as she shot head first toward the landing at breakneck speed, Milar clinging to her back like a leech. Alasen was relieved to see they had piled dozens of pillows against the wall to cushion the impact, which was still considerable enough to knock the breath out of them. Pillow seams split and feathers flew like snowflakes.

"Again!" Milar cried from the middle of the blizzard.

"Once more here, then we'll try the circle stairs." Jeni sorted out arms and legs, brushed herself off, and hefted the bowl. As she turned to make the climb again, she saw her mother.

Alasen was trying very hard not to laugh. Guilty faces decorated in feathers, they were adorable. Besides, the wild ride had looked like terrific fun.

"The circle stairs, hmm?" she asked.

"We didn't hurt anything, Mama," Jeni hastened to explain. "That's why the pillows. And we didn't even dent the bowl. See?" She hefted it up for inspection.

Milar chimed in with, "You said be 'specially quiet today so Papa can sleep after being up all night with Dannar, so we picked stairs where he wouldn't hear us."

Alasen bit her lip. The incident this winter had been explained with the excuse that, having been told not to disturb their papa's peace, they had chosen to climb a chandelier in a chamber on the other side of the castle from his library.

Jeni added, "This was just a test, really. We could go much faster on the circle stairs."

"I daresay you could." Alasen bit her lip, then glanced around. No one had appeared in response to their gleeful shrieks, but that wasn't surprising. Previous escapades had seen half a dozen servants successfully bribed beforehand. She wondered briefly what Milar, the more conniving of the pair, had thought up this time, then gave in and grinned down at her daughters. "Shall we go try it out?"

If Donato was shocked to encounter a Princess of Kierst and her daughters hurtling down a staircase in a serving bowl, he gave no sign. When they tumbled to a laughing halt two paces from him-with predictably disastrous consequences to the pillows piled there-he helped them up and brushed them off with perfect aplomb.

"Do you want to try?" Milar offered. "It's almost as good as the snow this winter."

"Perhaps another time, my lady," Donato replied courteously, plucking feathers from her pale brown hair.

Alasen recognized a certain look in the faradhi faradhi's eyes and all the fun went out of the morning. "I think you'd better take this back now," she told Jeni. "Your lessons are supposed supposed to begin immediately after breakfast." to begin immediately after breakfast."

"Mama!" both girls wailed.

"Do I have to call someone to escort you? Go on. Oh-and on your way find Iavol and tell him I'll see him before noon. Hurry, now!"

They left dejectedly, the bowl dragged along between them. Donato watched them go, a fond smile on his face.

"G.o.ddess help the men who try to tame them," he murmured.

"Ostvel says we'll have to find each a nice, calm, tolerant husband with an excellent sense of humor. But that's many years ahead of us, and you didn't come looking for me to discuss Jeni and Milar. What's wrong?"

Donato touched her elbow. "In private, my lady."

Really worried now by his request for privacy-for through the years Pandsala's servants had been replaced by trusted people loyal only to Ostvel and Alasen-she stayed silent until they had climbed back up the circular stairs to the oratory. Thick, heavy fog formed another wall a finger's breadth beyond the gla.s.s, blocking the view of the Faolain gorge below. Alasen seated herself on one of the chairs, folded her hands, and waited for Donato to speak.

"This fog came up quickly, didn't it?" he said. "It was clear last night."

"And what did you see on moonlight that you've been thinking about ever since?"

"My lady, I've been trying to puzzle something out all night. I waited to consult you, hoping the fog would lift and I could get a clearer look by sunlight, but-" He shrugged. "You know that I keep regular watch on all Princemarch's holdings and take a look at the borders every so often as well."

She nodded. Donato's observations were occasionally very useful-for instance, when he caught Geir of Waes in a little smuggling off the coastline three years ago. Ostvel was bothered by what he thought of as spying, but Alasen quashed his doubts with the simple logic that people who had nothing to hide would never even know they had been seen.

"It may be nothing." Donato shrugged uneasily and sat down across the aisle from her. "But-has Ostvel or his grace authorized any military exercises around Rezeld?"

"Ostvel has not," she replied with total confidence. "I doubt if Prince Pol has, either. How many troops and horses are we discussing here?"

"The manor can stable twenty horses and could conceivably pack about a hundred extra people into the hall for sleeping." He hesitated. "Alasen, camped in the fields nearby were at least three hundred, possibly more. I can't think where they'd be keeping the horses-in the woods, perhaps. And if they've bows and spears, they're as hidden as the horses. I won't be sure until I can get a better look."

"What about banners, colors of any kind?"

"None. I'm not familiar with how one prepares for war. We'll have to ask Ostvel what else I should look for when I go back."

Alasen frowned. "Who could Morlen be thinking of warring against? against? Surely not us. Castle Crag is impenetrable. And not Dragon's Rest, either. That would be ludicrous. It would take twice three hundred soldiers and then some even to make the attempt. If there were brigands to be chased out of the mountains again, he'd apply to us for help while Pol's at Stronghold-and to you as a Sunrunner, to let him know where they're hiding." Surely not us. Castle Crag is impenetrable. And not Dragon's Rest, either. That would be ludicrous. It would take twice three hundred soldiers and then some even to make the attempt. If there were brigands to be chased out of the mountains again, he'd apply to us for help while Pol's at Stronghold-and to you as a Sunrunner, to let him know where they're hiding."

"It makes very little sense, my lady-unless Morlen has the a.s.surance of more troops from someone."

Alasen rose. "I'm going to talk to Ostvel about this. Donato, keep alert for any break in the fog. If it doesn't clear by noon, then we'll have to send you out in search of some usable sunlight."

He contemplated the swirling gray outside the oratory wall. "I hope this really is fog up from the river and not a cloud hugging the ground. Otherwise I'd have to ride all the way to the top of Whitespur."

Ostvel was fast asleep, snoring gently. Alasen paused a moment, urgent worry fading a little as the familiar tenderness crept through her. His dark hair was going gray and the lines carved on his face by twenty years in the Desert were deeper, but in slumber he looked nearly her own age. His sensitive mouth curved softly, its almost vulnerable lines belied by the strong bones of brow and nose and cheek bequeathed to their son. Not a beautiful face as masculine beauty was usually reckoned, but a face she had grown to love very much.

"Ostvel," she whispered, brushing the hair from his forehead. "Dearest, I'm sorry to wake you, but we must talk."

He grunted and rolled away from her touch. She shook his shoulder.

"Ostvel!"

"Go 'way," he muttered, hunching into the quilts.

"What a welcome for your loving wife," she chided. Climbing onto the bed, she knelt at his back and tickled his nape with one finger. "Come on, I know you're awake."

"If you were a loving wife, you'd let me sleep." He flopped onto his back and glared up at her. "Better still, you'd teach our pest of a son some manners, so I could sleep nights like the honest, hardworking athri athri I am. Very well, I'm awake. What is it?" I am. Very well, I'm awake. What is it?"

She told him.

"d.a.m.n." He flung back the quilt and strode to the dressing room. Alasen followed, demanding to know what he thought he was doing.

"We can't wait for the fog to lift," he explained as he pulled his warmest clothes from the closets. "Donato and I will have to ride up Whitespur now, as soon as possible."

"But why? I know the activity at Rezeld is suspicious, but-"

"It fits in with a few other puzzling things I've noticed this last year." His head disappeared for a moment beneath a thick knitted-wool shirt. "Why, for instance, Morlen has asked Pol to secure him a quant.i.ty of iron at the Rialla Rialla bargaining this year. He says he wants to reinforce Rezeld using the new techniques devised at Feruche and perfected at Dragon's Rest-but how could he do that without tearing down his whole keep? My guess is that he's going to need replacement iron for things he's melted down to make spears and arrowtips for this little comedy." bargaining this year. He says he wants to reinforce Rezeld using the new techniques devised at Feruche and perfected at Dragon's Rest-but how could he do that without tearing down his whole keep? My guess is that he's going to need replacement iron for things he's melted down to make spears and arrowtips for this little comedy."

"Ostvel!"

"Hand me those other leggings, will you, my love? Moths have been at these. There's something else. Chadric wrote of a curious circ.u.mstance in a letter recently. Someone contracted for a great deal of silk. It was a huge order and he filled it, of course, at a tidy profit. But once it reached Radzyn, it vanished before the shipping duties were paid."

"Lord Chaynal never mentioned-"

"It would have shown up on the account books only at next New Year. I doubt he's had the time or inclination to do his book-keeping recently." Ostvel stamped his feet into his riding boots and reached for a heavy tunic. "Chadric thought the colors involved might interest me."

Alasen frowned. "Not Rezeld's colors."

"Indeed not. Cunaxan orange. And Merida brown and yellow."

She stared at him. He gave her a tight smile and bent to kiss her.

"Why would one need so vast a quant.i.ty of silk? Summer tunics, of course. For an army. Moreover, an army heading for the lower Desert. Cunaxan wool would kill them quicker than Desert swords."

Alasen found her voice again. "Why didn't you tell tell me this?" me this?"

"Because none of it fit before now." He hesitated as he pulled on his gloves. "Even after nine years with you, I suppose I'm still in the habit of fretting on my own. Forgive me."

She nodded, and that was the end of the issue. "Go have the horses saddled. I'll find Donato and while he's getting dressed I'll have the kitchens put together a meal."

Ostvel took her waist in his hands. "Have I told you recently-"

"That I'm wonderful?" She smiled. "Just bring yourself back in one piece, my lord, or I'll have your teeth for tunic b.u.t.tons."

Ostvel had spent his early youth at G.o.ddess Keep and his first wife had been faradhi, faradhi, so he was as intimately familiar with the process of weaving sunlight as anyone not gifted could be. He knew what kind of light was needed, and how much, and for how long. So when Donato would have stopped halfway up Whitespur to risk a Sunrunning, Ostvel forbade it. so he was as intimately familiar with the process of weaving sunlight as anyone not gifted could be. He knew what kind of light was needed, and how much, and for how long. So when Donato would have stopped halfway up Whitespur to risk a Sunrunning, Ostvel forbade it.

"That cloud over there would trap you before you'd gone past Castle Crag. Don't be an idiot."

"The more I think about all this, the more I want to hurry and the more nervous I get."

"Which is precisely why you need a nice, strong fall of sunlight."

Donato squinted at the snowfield ahead. "You're going to make me ride through that muck, aren't you?" He sighed and stroked the neck of the st.u.r.dy little mountain pony beneath him. "At least we're not on those great fire-eaters Lord Chaynal gave you."