Riyan chuckled. “From what I know about my mother, I can’t see her paying any attention!”
“From what I know about her, she probably laughed in his face! I can tell it’s in his head to stay here until spring. But if this child is a boy, he should be born at Castle Crag.”
“Of course,” Riyan agreed.
She shifted and looked down at her elegantly slippered feet. “I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”
He held up a staying hand and smiled. “I know what you’re going to say. Skybowl is all I want, Alasen. I’d be a disaster in a place as grand as Castle Crag. You’re a Princess of Kierst, born to that kind of life, and you’ll teach it to your children. Your son can have Castle Crag with my profound gratitude.”
“Are you sure?” she worried. “It’s the most important keep in Princemarch until Dragon’s Rest is finished. And even after, the whole of the north will be governed from there. And it’s the major trading center in the Veresch. Your talents could be put to excellent use at a busy castle like that. And it is your right as Ostvel’s eldest son.”
Riyan shook his head. “He had absolutely nothing to give me until I was six winters old and Rohan gave him Skybowl. I don’t want anything else, truly. I’m Desert-born and bred. I’ve seen enough of other places to know that this is where I belong.”
“As long as you’re certain. ...”
“I am.”
“This is going to sound awfully sentimental,” she murmured. “But if this baby is a boy, I want him to grow up just like his elder brother.”
Ostvel said from the doorway, “I’m sure he will, though it’ll be none of my doing. My children have remarkable mothers.” He crossed the room and bent to kiss the crown of her braids. “And here I thought you were simply getting fat!”
She assumed a cloyingly sweet expression, her voice all honey-wine as she replied, “At least I have a good excuse.” She prodded him in the stomach.
“My belt’s been in exactly the same notch since I was your age!”
Riyan grinned. Ostvel, realizing he was being teased, growled playfully down at his wife and then kissed her again. He then took the chair beside Riyan’s. “Sorin’s got a little expedition going up to Feruche tomorrow, Alasen. Would you mind traveling down to Stronghold without me?”
“It’s already settled,” Alasen replied, pouring a cup of taze for him. “I’ll have more time with Arlis this way. I wanted Jo give him a while to settle in before I went to see him.” She sighed and shook her head. “I can’t believe my little nephew is old enough to be Rohan’s squire! And I’m so relieved that Saumer agreed with Father about his fostering.”
Ostvel shrugged. “A mutual grandson is no guarantee of mutual agreement on his training.”
“How old is Arlis now?” Riyan asked. “Nearly eleven?”
“Yes.” She poured a cup of taze for Ostvel, then leaned back and sighed. “Father thought that maybe he’d have faradhi gifts like me, but he didn’t so much as bat an eyelash on the sail from Kierst-Isel.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “I only experienced it once, but Sunrunner seasickness isn’t something I ever want to go through again.”
Riyan noted with interest that, for the first time in his hearing, she had admitted what she was. She must be feeling easier about it. Three years had passed since the terrifying events of the 719 Rialla, memories that could still give Riyan nightmares of death and sorceries and unspeakable pain.
“That’s why she married me,” Ostvel said. “To avoid another crossing.”
“So Arlis isn’t faradhi,” Riyan mused. “That’ll be a relief to the other princes.”
“The stupid, prejudiced ones,” Alasen said in disgust.
He shrugged. “Look at it from their point of view. I’m no bother to them. They hardly know I exist. But Maarken’s going to inherit Radzyn one day and all his father’s power in the Desert. As for Pol—he makes them so nervous they practically flinch whenever he’s mentioned.”
Ostvel sipped at the hot drink. “There was plenty of hostility three years ago. And he wasn’t even fifteen then, still only a child, completely untrained in the arts. By rights he should have gone to Goddess Keep last year.”
“Sioned won’t ever send him, will she?” Riyan glanced at his father.
“I’d be astounded if she did,” came the frank reply.
Alasen was silent for a moment, then said softly, “How horrible it must be for Andry—Lord of Goddess Keep and not trusted by his own family to train the next High Prince as a Sunrunner.”
Riyan frowned. “You saw him at the Rialla. What was he like?”
“Polite and proper and regal, just as he should be in his position and with his ancestry. And there was no trace of youth about him, Riyan. It hurt Tobin terribly to see it. So many responsibilities—and so many plans kept secret! That’s what they don’t trust. His innovations.”
“I don’t hear much about that, being in the wrong camp for it.” Shaking his head, he added, “I hear myself dividing us up into factions and it scares me.”
Ostvel sat back, sprawling his long legs in a casual posture belied by the tension in his face. “But that’s where we’re all headed, isn’t it? Andry on one side, Pol on another, and suspicious princes on the third. Andrade wanted to unite the continent under a Sunrunner High Prince. Instead, we’re splitting apart. And it’s going to get worse as Pol gets older.”
Gesturing her annoyance, Alasen said, “When Lady Andrade had control over the faradh’im, the princes could at least be assured of her discipline. But the break between Andry and the Desert is obvious, now that Pol is old enough but isn’t at Goddess Keep.”
“You’ve forgotten a fourth faction,” Riyan reminded her. “Sorcerers.”
She got to her feet, pacing, her hands wrapped around the steaming cup. “That’s the worst of all! After hundreds of years they appear out of nowhere, then vanish again. Who can say where they are, what they think, what they’re planning? How will they next challenge Pol and Andry? Because it will be both of them, Riyan. They’ll have to stand together as faradh’im against the threat. And I’m so afraid their pride won’t allow it.”
“Surely it won’t get as bad as all that,” he said, trying to soothe her. “After all, these sorcerers may not emerge again at all.”
Alasen’s lips curled bitterly. “No? You felt their power, Riyan, just as I did, at Lady Andrade’s death and at the combat. Do you think something like that will be content to stay in hiding another few hundred years? If Pol and Andry can’t oppose them together, these sorcerers might win.”
“Yes, I felt their power,” he said quietly. “More so than almost anyone. I’m of their blood, Alasen.”
“And no more like them than your father is,” she emphasized. “Ah, but do we really know what they want?” Ostvel mused.
Alasen leaned against the arm of a chair. “Faradh’im defeated them. They’ll want their revenge. But why now? What is it about now that makes them think they can succeed?”
“They failed with Masul,” Riyan pointed out.
“They weren’t half trying,” she scoffed. “I think he was a means of getting Andrade out of the way.”
“Well, if it ever comes down to finding out who is and who isn’t of the Old Blood, then quite frankly I trust Pol’s protection more than Andry’s.”
“Riyan!” Alasen stared at him. “You’re shadow-fearing, Sunrunner,” she said more calmly.
“Am I? What about it, Father? What’s the easiest way to unite various factions? Give them a mutual enemy—or someone they perceive as an enemy.”
“Alasen’s right,” Ostvel snapped. “You’re starting at shadows.”
“Andry would never even think anything like that!” she added. “Riyan, you’ve known him all your life!”