He stood before the locked iron door of the cell, conjured a flame to the torch set in the wall, and prepared to face the woman ultimately responsible for his brother’s death.
He had been careful and silent in his approach. But before his fingers even touched the lock, her voice came muffled and mocking from within: “What? Not out watching sorcery at work?”
He opened the door. She stood against the far wall, long white-streaked hair straggling about her shoulders, gray-green eyes glittering, wrists bloody testimony to her efforts at escaping her bonds.
“I see you’ve made yourself comfortable,” he said, matching her jeering tone.
“Oh, quite,”
There were any number of things he might have said. Any number of ways he might have opened his conversation with her. But the words that came from him were blunt, direct with the force of his need.
“Tell me what you know. I need your knowledge.”
Mireva laughed at him.
“Tell me.”
“And why should I do that?”
“Because it’s your last chance.” He paused. “Do you know what Rohan plans for you?” It had been mentioned this afternoon, before he had told Rohan he would not be going to Rivenrock. He wholeheartedly approved the idea; it had an elegant simplicity and promised days of excruciating torment. Rohan could be admirably ruthless when it suited him.
She shrugged. “Does it matter? We both know I’m to die.”
“There are ways and ways of dying. I’d kill you myself, right now—but I must admit that he has a more interesting way.” He stood in the open doorway, letting his shadow fall across her. The sight pleased him. “Are you feeling the lack of dranath yet?” he asked with malicious gentleness. A spasm went through her that tugged her wrists apart, renewing a sluggish flow of blood down her hands.
Andry nodded. “I thought you might. Tell me what I want to know, and I may decide to end your life quickly.” Her eyes closed for a moment. Then she gave a resigned little shrug. “Very well. But release my bonds.”
He very nearly laughed. “Not even for what I could learn from you.”
“Fool! This cell may be four stone walls, but the ground beyond is laced with iron ore! Can’t you feel it, Sunrunner? Are your senses that weak? The door’s made of iron—I couldn’t get past it even without steel in my flesh! If I’m going to die, at least let it be with a shred of dignity! Don’t kill me when I’m trussed like a pig for slaughter!” Andry considered, then closed the door. “I’ll loosen them,” he said at last, conjuring a bit of Fire high on the wall to see by. “But the ‘earring’ stays.”
“As you wish,” she answered sullenly. He untwisted the steel wire connecting her arms, making sure each swollen wrist was still encircled, careful that the bonds were not loose enough to slip over her hands. She was free, after a fashion; the blood-dark wires were only bracelets now. He was confident that before she could work them off or remove the steel from her ear-lobe, he could get out the door and slam its iron shut.
“Too gracious.” She rubbed her wrists. “What do you want to know?”
“Start at the beginning. It won’t make any sense otherwise.”
Mireva settled onto the floor. Leaning her head back against the wall, her hands in plain view, she held his gaze with her own and began to speak.
Years ago, before Andry had been born, Mireva had changed her youthful shape to that of an old hag and given Lady Palila the secret of dranath. Roelstra’s mistress had used the drug as Mireva had hoped. A Sunrunner named Crigo had been addicted and thereby enslaved. It was a satisfying thing to watch for a sorcerer who had spent her life in hiding. Yet as things developed, Mireva began to dare a larger hope: that when one of Roelstra’s daughters by Lallante married Rohan, Crigo could be used even more effectively against Andrade by being in Rohan’s inner councils.
“Tell me more about dranath,” Andry interrupted.
“Think it might be useful, do you?” she jeered. “You know that it augments power? Ever used it yourself, Sunrunner?”
“And risk addiction?” he snorted. It was none of her business that he had experimented with the drug. “Leave myself vulnerable to what Rohan wants to do with you?”
“It’s worth it.” She shrugged. “If you ever plan on slipping your beloved cousin a little, be aware that anyone with the gifts can resist direction if he becomes aware of it—and it’s not difficult to detect it, believe me. But unless he suspects, he’ll be open to any interesting little suggestions you wish to make.”
“What about ungifteds?”
“Nothing to work with. Their minds are empty so far as dranath is concerned. All it does is addict them. It takes the Blood to be vulnerable that way—which is why Ianthe was able to beguile Rohan into lying with her.”
“Oh,” he said, bored, “the phantom son.”
“No more than Ruval or Marron or Segev! He would have had Sunrunner sensitivities from his father and the full diarmadhi gift from his mother.” Her gray-green eyes unfocused. “What I could have taught him. . . .” Then she met Andry’s gaze again with another small shrug for lost opportunities. “But he died with her in the razing of Feruche.”
“You can mourn him some other time,” Andry said impatiently. “Go on with the story.”
She settled with her back against the wall, seeming to enjoy this chance to lecture the Lord of Goddess Keep. “Lallante was a kinswoman of mine. We married her to Roelstra hoping for a son who would be diarmadhi and High Prince both—just as Andrade mated her sister to Zehava and Sioned to Rohan, wanting the same thing for you faradh’im. But Lallante was terrified of her powers and wouldn’t use them. When she rejected her heritage, we gave up hope.”
“We?”
“My father, her father, and I. They died shortly after she did.” Mireva’s voice was bitter and brooding. “Died of the failure. It didn’t take a Sunrunner that time. Lallante was one of our own, and she betrayed us.” Mireva wrapped her arms around herself and stared at the stone floor. “There were others who worked with us. But ours was the purest line—a lineage more royal than yours, Sunrunner.” She grinned suddenly. “Descended from none other than your precious Lord Rosseyn, ally of Merisel the Cursed.”
“He was no sorcerer!” Andry exclaimed.
“No. But his woman was. And so were her children by him. You weakling Sunrunners—it takes two of you to produce gifted offspring. The talent recedes without careful mating. But the diarmadhi powers are present in the children even if only one parent is gifted.”
He stared at her, fascinated. “Then all Lallante’s daughters—”
“Are part of us. Only that whimpering fool Naydra survives. With her dies Lallante’s line. Except for Ruval.”
“And so?”
“Crigo’s death, Ianthe’s failure to win Rohan—Pandsala’s similar failure—but then there were Ianthe’s sons. Three fine, strong, powerful boys. One of Feruche’s guards was diarmadhi, my watch there. He brought them to me. I knew what it was to hope again. ...”
Mireva had taken the boys in, nurtured their gifts, taught them who they were and what they must do to reclaim their birthright. Segev, the youngest, had gone to Goddess Keep that spring of 719.
“You never knew,” she purred as Andry stared in shock. “That he was a sorcerer, you guessed. That he was Ianthe’s son—” She laughed. “You and Hollis even let him help you translate the Star Scroll. Now that was irony! Even though he failed to bring me the original or even a copy, I saw enough of it on starlight to know it wasn’t the thing whispered of in legend.”
“Ah, but it is.” He got some of his own back as her eyes widened.
“Impossible! The spells are wrong, they’re—”
“Written that way deliberately. They only work if you know the code Lady Merisel used.”