“With money or persuasion, Mireva?”
As she glanced up to return his grin, by the soft light she suddenly seemed half her nearly sixty-seven winters. The fine lines raying out from her fierce gray-green eyes vanished, as did the slight fleshiness along her jaw as her lifted head tightened the skin.
“None of that,” she chided, though she shared his glee at the possibilities open to them in placid Swalekeep, where diarmadh’im were unknown and faradh’im barely tolerated by proud Chiana of the long and grudge-filled memory.
They continued down the street to the appointed meeting place just outside the low brick wall surrounding the castle gardens. They lingered for some time, pretending to admire the late roses.
“I can’t help wondering how much he’s changed,” Ruval said as they waited for his half-brother.
“Do you really think he has? He’ll be just the same as ever: stubborn, jealous, and ambitious.”
“But he’s bound to have picked up a few ideas of his own. Like Segev.”
They both paused to recall the youngest of Ianthe’s brood, dead these seven summers by a faradhi hand. Segev’s failure to steal the Star Scroll had been a setback; his scheming to take its power for himself had been a shock; his death had been a blessing. But the manner of his death—stabbed by Lady Hollis—earned Mireva’s vow to avenge him. Killing her—and her husband and children—would be almost as satisfying as killing Pol and Rohan.
And Sioned, who had captured Rohan before Ianthe had even met him, thus fouling one path back to power for Mireva’s people. Sioned had protected Rohan from Roelstra’s treachery during their single combat by constructing a dome of glistening starfire at an impossible distance—stars forbidden to Sunrunners by Lady Merisel of abhorrent memory—after she had ordered Feruche razed and Ianthe slaughtered in her bed.
But only one of Ianthe’s sons had died with his mother: the boy who was Rohan’s get. Ruval, Marron, and Segev had escaped on Sioned’s own Radzyn-bred horses and been brought to Mireva. Ruval wanted the High Princess dead in payment for his mother; Marron, always more direct, simply wanted her dead. Mireva’s reasons were more complex. She had, after all, touched the woman’s powerful mind.
Addressing Ruval’s last remark, she said, “Segev was a fool as only a sixteen-year-old boy can be a fool. Marron is older, and one hopes he’s wise enough to know that you two can’t fight it out until there’s something to fight over. Until we have the Desert and Princemarch, he’ll go where he’s reined.”
“I’ll be riding him with a pronged bit and spurs just the same.”
Mireva paced a little way down the low wall, pausing to inhale the heavy spice of a flowering bush. Ruval followed, and together they gazed up at the castle. An eccentric structure, befitting its long history and the varying tastes of its owners, it exuded towers, extra wings, and additional floors with no regard for any architectural grace. Vines climbed thick and close up gray stone, softening some of the more awkward angles, but taken as a whole it was a rather ugly place. Dragon’s Rest, on the other hand, was reported to be an exquisite blend of beauty, strength, and power. How nice of Pol, Mireva thought with a sudden almost girlish smile, to make a palace fit for the Sorcerer High Prince who stood at her side.
She must be sure to thank Pol before she killed him.
“At last,” Ruval muttered. Mireva turned and saw a familiar young man dressed in the light green of service to Meadowlord’s rulers. Similar in feature and build to his eldest brother, Marron’s coloring was ruddier; even in the muted gray light his hair was a dark red mane. His eyes were brown, like Ianthe’s. Ruval was the taller by two fingers’ width, but Marron was the heavier and more physically imposing. They were unmistakable as brothers, especially when they smiled—sly, mocking, and shrewd.
Marron nodded pleasantly as he approached, as he had done to the one or two others he passed along the wall. When he was abreast of them, he whispered, “The Crown and Castle.” And walked on.
Mireva was irritated, but understood his need for caution. Had there been more people about, they could have met with complete unconcern right outside Chiana’s windows. But the sultry heat kept most of Swalekeep indoors. Thus they had to meet there, too.
The inn was situated at the end of a street that itself ended at the lofty outer wall. This was one of those places where the granite had been stolen away for more prosaic uses; the gap was big enough to ride through without ducking. Not that Ruval would have cared to try it—those upper stones looked a little tentative, deprived of their underpinnings.
One side of the Crown and Castle abutted on an ironmonger’s. The other was Swalekeep’s main wall itself. Over the hearth fire hung a cauldron from which patrons dipped their own stew. A smaller pot held mulled wine, also on a self-serve basis. Ruval showed a gold coin to a girl who sat near the hearth and ordered chilled wine. She left off petting the fat orange cat in her lap long enough to point to a nearby table—and to take the coin from his fingers.
Mireva joined him in a corner and they made slow drinking of the wine, trying to ignore the incessant hammering of the smith next door. How anyone could find the energy to work in this weather—let alone over a furnace—was utterly beyond him. Eventually, full but not particularly refreshed, Ruval got up, stretched, and made his way out the back door as if to relieve himself. Marron was waiting for him, fuming.
“You knew where I’d be! Why did you make me wait?”
“Because I was thirsty. Because it amused me.” He assessed his brother with a scathing glance. “You’ve fed well, these last few winters.”
“And you still look like a half-starved wolf who doesn’t know how to hunt for himself,” Marron shot back.
“Why should I, when I have a little brother to do my hunting for me?” Ruval grinned and walked toward the watering trough, seating himself casually on its edge. “Well? What news of our darling Aunt Chiana?”
“Keep your voice down!” Marron hissed.
“Are your senses grown as soft as your belly? There’s no one in hearing distance but those cats.” He gestured to the gray striped cat and kittens nearby. “And I doubt they’re interested.”
Marron sighed and shook his head. “I hate being closed in like this. You don’t know what it’s been like. The Veresch forests are walls you can walk through.”
Ruval felt unwilling sympathy. He hadn’t considered until arriving in Swalekeep how difficult it must be to adapt to life inside stone. “Come sit down, brother.”
Marron perched on the far rim of the trough. “You know my position in Swalekeep. It’s taken me two years to get into the chamberlain’s confidence, even using bits of power here and there. Chiana’s a bitch up one side and down the other—our grandfather’s daughter, no doubt about that! She wants all done to perfection, then finds fault and makes you do it again.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting her.”
Dark eyes widened. “You can’t!”
“No?” Ruval laughed. “Go on.”
Marron looked as if he might argue, then subsided with a glower. “Mireva was right about Chiana’s ambition. She wants Rinhoel to have Princemarch as well as Meadowlord, even though all the sisters renounced it for themselves and their heirs—”
“All the sisters except Mother. Dead—at Sioned’s order.” A fragrance, a silken rustle, a throaty laugh, a sharp scowl when he played too rough—the meager memories darted through his mind, always escaping too quickly.
“I saw Sioned at last year’s Rialla. Toured Dragon’s Rest, too, but we’ll talk of that another time. She’s fifty next year, and looks thirty-five. Rohan’s the same.” Marron hesitated. “He’s not even a Sunrunner, Ruval—yet I could almost see the aleva around him. Sioned’s is almost painful to look at. And as for Pol—!”