“I do have a small demonstration in mind, actually,” he replied. “Will you do the honors, or shall I?”
Rohan noted with interest that she immediately shook her head. Were the spells so very dangerous? he wondered. Or was it only that they came from ancient enemies of the faradh’im?
Urival gestured, and Morwenna went to lock the door. She drew the window shutters, closing out daylight. Going to the side table, she poured water into a polished bronze bowl and brought it to Urival. He had pulled up another chair to his knees. When the bowl was placed on it, he hunched forward over the water.
“We use Fire as a focus for such things,” he said matter-of-factly, and it startled Rohan to hear his voice so casual when he was about to—to do what? “But they had a technique for working with Water, an element we usually avoid, as you know. Rohan, have you something of Sioned’s? Something small enough to fit into the bowl, preferably a thing she wears or uses frequently.”
“What are you going to do?” he asked, unable to keep suspicion from his voice.
Urival glanced over at him, laughing sardonically. “I presume you miss your wife and would like to see her?”
After a moment’s thought, Rohan got up and crossed to a glass-fronted bookcase. Opening it, he extracted one of a pair of tiny carved cups. “The Isulk’im sent us these a few years back, for rattling dice in. Sioned uses this one when playing Sandsteps.”
“Isulk’im?” Morwenna repeated blankly, then nodded. “Oh—those crazy people who live out on the Long Sand.”
“Go gently with your descriptions,” Urival smiled. “They’re Rohan’s distant kin.”
“But I’m crazy, too. Hadn’t you noticed?” He gave the old man the sand-jade cup. “Will this do?”
“Perfectly.” It disappeared into his palm for a moment, and then he slid it into the water. “Stand close, so you can see.”
He did so. Morwenna stepped back warily. Her skittishness would have been catching had Rohan allowed himself to react to it. Urival cradled the bowl in his long, knotted hands, holding it but not lifting it from the chair. After a moment Rohan heard soft metallic vibrations and realized the Sunrunner’s nine rings were quivering delicately against the bronze.
“Mark this,” Urival breathed. “When others do sorcery while I am nearby, the rings burn. The stronger the magic, the more heat. But when I myself perform a spell, my rings merely tremble. I am of the Old Blood.”
“And so am I,” Morwenna whispered. Rohan stared at her. She was chafing the rings on her hands and the muscles of her face had tightened with pain. “Get on with it, won’t you? This hurts.”
“It’s the one sure way to tell,” Urival said. “I never understood one particular part of fashioning our rings, but now I do. A ... warning ... is set into them. Last year I taught young Torien that part of the Chief Steward’s duty, but I didn’t know what it was for, any more than the rest of us do. Our devious Lady Merisel didn’t mention the why of it in her scrolls—only that it was essential.”
“Urival, please!” Morwenna’s hands had curled into fists. Rohan brought the pitcher of water from the sideboard and she gratefully dipped first one hand and then the other into it. “That helps a little,” she said, but he read no easing of the pain in her eyes.
Rohan’s attention was snatched by the bowl, where the cup had begun to glow softly. His eyes widened as the golden light spread, permeated the water, swirled slowly and coalesced not unlike the way faradh’im used Fire. Water was not the Goddess’ element; Sunrunners were all violently ill when they attempted to cross it. Fire and Earth, these were the children of the Goddess. As for Air and Water—the Father of Storms obviously had dominion over them. Destruction and life were in each, balancing the world, and all four were used in the most somber and powerful of faradhi conjurings.
He saw Sioned, slim and vigorous in pale riding leathers, thick fire gold hair braided around her head. She was speaking to Sorin, who nodded and unrolled a parchment on which architects had sketched and resketched plans for rebuilding Feruche. Beyond them the castle itself rose, fleshed out in stone for its first two floors, a skeleton of steel supports above that. Rohan saw girders for two towers, a balcony running the length of the Desert side of the keep, and a watchspire reaching skyward with steel fingers.
Old Myrdal, long-retired commander of Stronghold’s guard, limped into the vision, leaning heavily on her cane. She pointed to the design parchment, then to the keep, and laughed. Sorin looked startled; Sioned, thoughtful. Myrdal drew patterns in the dirt with her cane, speaking rapidly, then wiped out the sketch with her boot.
Rohan knew what the old woman had proposed—in principle if not detail. She knew every secret of every castle in the Desert—including the gutted ruin that had stood where a new keep was now being built. She had frankly admitted that her reason for accompanying Sioned to Feruche was to remind Sorin to sneak secrets into a design where no one suspected them. Beauty had won over preparedness for war in most of the final plans for the new keep, but Myrdal’s adamant face told Rohan she would insist on precautions just the same. There were ways in and out of Stronghold, Remagev, Radzyn, Tiglath, and Tuath that no one but Myrdal knew of, ways she had imparted to him and Sioned but not, in most cases, to the owners of the keeps. By just such a secret passage, Sioned had entered the old Feruche and taken Pol from his mother, Princess Ianthe.
Urival drew in a shuddering breath and his hands fell away from the bowl. The vision faded as he sagged back in his chair. Rohan forced him to drink some wine, and color gradually returned to the old man’s face.
“It would be easier to sustain if I’d taken dranath first, of course,” he said. “But I assume you understand.”
“I understand that you now can do certain things—which Andry also knows how to do from his copy of the Star Scroll,” Rohan said slowly. “And you propose to teach these things to Pol.”
“And to Sioned. I may not last long enough to teach the boy everything myself. When does he return from Graypearl?”
“He’ll be knighted at the next Rialla, when he’s almost twenty-one. When Sioned feels he knows what he should of faradhi arts, he’ll take over Princemarch from Ostvel and rule from Dragon’s Rest.”
Urival nodded. “How close to completion is the new keep?”
“It’s coming along slowly,” Rohan admitted. “I hope to have one large building and two smaller ones finished by Ihe Rialla.”
Morwenna was startled. “Five years you’ve been working on it, and only three parts done?”
The basics of a small defensive keep could be finished in a year. Upper stories and embellishments—what Sorin was doing now—could take up to two more. The fancy work of towers, spires, and so forth could go on forever, depending on the ambitions, tastes, and funding of the builder. Feruche was taking a long time because it was something of an experiment; techniques used there would be applied to Dragon’s Rest. But the latter was not a keep; it was to be a palace.
Rohan said, “We’re not creating a castle, but an impression. It must be perfect for the first Rialla held there.”
“What you’re saying is that your three parts of Dragon’s Rest will be completely finished, down to the rugs and doorknobs,” Urival mused.
“Yes.” He rose and opened the shutters, letting in light and air.
“I’ll wager Princess Gennadi is relieved not to have the responsibility of the Rialla at Waes anymore,” said Morwenna.
“But young Geir is not,” Rohan reminded her. “He’s sixteen, and that’s a proud age. Gennadi allowed him to preside with her at the Lastday banqueting, when the move to Dragon’s Rest was formally announced. If looks were daggers. ...” He shrugged.
“Taking the Rialla from Waes wasn’t perhaps the smartest thing you ever did,” Urival remarked. “But I can see the necessity. Bring the princes to Pol once every three years and make your—impression. Be that as it may, we will need more than that, his status as your heir, and the Princemarch title to fulfill Andrade’s scheme.”