“To what?” Sionell asked softly, and when the small hand tried to escape she held it fast. “How was he trying to use you, Meiglan?”
“I-I don’t know—”
“Of course you do.”
“No!”
“I knew it was Pol you saw that night at Tiglath. Or claimed to have seen.”
“But I did—he as in my room, I saw him—”
“Did you?”
“Yes!” she wailed, struggling to free herself, tears welling in her soft eyes. “Please, you’re hurting me—”
Sionell let go. Memory gave her the farcical little scene played out that night—for whose benefit? Hers? Meiglan’s? Pol’s? Whose, Goddess damn it to all Hells—Meiglan was rubbing her wrist. It astonished Sionell that she had not fled. Surely she knew there would be more questions.
“My lady,” the girl said with a pathetic dignity, “I can’t make you believe me. I only know what I saw. And—and what I felt when we came here to Stronghold and it was him. I think my father used me as a d-diversion. So you would all look at me and s-suspect me. And so Mireva could c-come along and be free to work—he used me to bring a sorcerer here to destroy you—”
Seeing that her moment of self-command had vanished and tears were imminent again, Sionell looked down into pleading eyes and knew she had to make a choice, one way or the other. She could believe Meiglan innocent or suspect that she was not. This had nothing to do with Pol or Miyon’s plots or anything else. This was between the two of them. She had offered Meiglan friendship before; she could continue to do so and have it be the truth or a lie, or reject her outright, now.
No one could possibly be so innocent. No one could possibly be so guilty and gaze up at her with such guileless liquid eyes.
As Sunrunners from Dorval to Kierst had heard Ruval’s challenge on the last starlight, thus did they hear Pol’s acceptance on noon sunlight.
Strong and sure, with a power previously felt only by those who had had contact with such masters as the late Lord Urival or those of Pol’s own remarkable family, colors flowed along rivers of sun. Diamond-white, deep emerald, iridescent pearl, glowing golden topaz, the jewel tints of his mind were as a pattern in stained glass through which light streamed without shadow.
A few of those touched responded in words. Meath, who had been Pol’s first teacher, paused in a meander through the ruins of a faradhi keep on Dorval where he had found the scrolls. Donato, who had accompanied Sioned to the Desert on Andrade’s order thirty years ago, spoke from Pol’s own Dragon’s Rest. Several others who knew Pol or Sioned or both gave proud answer. One who would have could not; Alasen, playing with her children in the coolness of the bowl-shaped garden at Castle Crag, lacked the training to respond. But for the first time in her life she wished she did know how. She wanted to tell Pol how sure she was of his victory.
The rest received the communication in silence. Of these, the Sunrunners at Goddess Keep were the most troubled, just as they had been by the challenge of the previous night. For they, like Rohan, understood that it was not just Pol and his princedom at stake; it was all faradh’im. When they responded, it was to seek out Andry.
He confirmed their suspicions and soothed their worries. What he did not reveal was that while Pol did battle with Ruval, he had other plans for Mireva. Andry wanted to be here even less than Rohan and Pol wanted him here—but here he would stay until this was over. Nialdan and Oclel chafed at the delay, not understanding why he had not ridden out immediately after the High Prince’s unfair decree. He knew they suspected he was hoping for a softening in Rohan’s position; Andry didn’t bother to tell them that until Ruval and Mireva were dead, he would stay if he had to learn shape-changing himself in order to do it.
Pol finished his work and rested in the shade on a bench circling a tree in the gardens. Instinct had guided him to choose sunlight rather than stars. Diarmadhi blood he might have, but he had been trained as a Sunrunner and thought of himself as such. Eventually he would get used to the idea that he possessed other powers—things he expected to use tonight—but for now he was strictly a Sunrunner. No one must ever know otherwise.
One of the few people who did know appeared quite suddenly from the grotto pathway. Pol straightened from his weary slump at the sight of Sionell. She saw him at the same instant and her step faltered. Emotions tangled in his throat: shame, regret, resentment, longing for the old Sionell with her ready smile—and for the old Pol, who had been so blithely innocent. He sat there staring at her, unsure of his reception at her hands for the first time in his life. Speech or silence, either might bridge the chasm between them or widen it.
She spared him the trouble of deciding. After another moment’s hesitation she approached and said, “I understand Ruval has made challenge to you.”
Pol nodded. “I’ve just finished accepting. On sunlight.”
“Of course.” Her eyes, a deeper and truer blue than his, were calm and quiet. “I would have liked to have heard it.”
“Just arrogance and posturing,” he replied, shrugging. “It’s expected. I’ll meet him tonight, at Rivenrock.”
“Alone?” Her voice betrayed a hint of bleakness, of pity. Then she answered her own question. “No, plenty of witnesses, of course.”
But still alone, her eyes said, and he wondered why he deserved her compassion. “I’d like you to be there, Ell.”
“Invitation to an execution by sorcery,” she mused. “A thing not to be missed, obviously.”
The muscles of his arms, shoulders, and back tensed as if preparing for a battle of swords, not words. “If you’d rather not—”
“Oh, I’ll be there. It ought to be very educational, even for those of us who know nothing of what Andry now calls magic.” She paused, raking the dark red hair from her eyes. “You know, when I was little I wanted more than anything else to be one of you. To fly on sunlight the way dragons soar through the sky. ...”
Sionell clasped her hands behind her back; he wondered if it was to hide their trembling. “The art of being faradhi is one thing. The power of magic—I wouldn’t have it now if someone offered it to me.”
“Why?” he challenged. “Are you afraid of it?”
“Of what it does to people. Your mother and Morwenna and Maarken and Hollis—they have such joy in what they can do. Such delight in the chance to fly. Andry doesn’t. He might have had, once. But not anymore. You can see it in his eyes. He’s learned how to use his gifts to kill.” The blue eyes became piercing. “What about you, Pol? How much joy will you take in your powers once you’ve used them to kill your own brother?”
“What else can I do? Why are you making this worse for me? To pay me back?”
“Do you think I’m like that?” she flared. “That I’d deliberately—” She stopped, calmed herself with visible effort, and finished, “I said it because I don’t want to see you become like Andry. With no joy left in your eyes.”
That stung. “Ell—”
“I owe my first loyalty to your father as my prince, but you’ll be in his position one day—High Prince and Sunrunner both. I want to see you become what you can be, not what events bludgeon you into becoming.” She looked as if she would have said more, but ended only with a little shrug.
“So your worry is for what kind of prince you’ll have to deal with in the future,” he said bitterly, and the hollow where certainty of her love had been ached anew. He was a political reality to her now, not a man. And it was his own fault; he had destroyed anything she might still feel for him.