“Chiana’s son is legitimate, a prince,” Mireva went on. “But she was quite spectacularly born a bastard.” A smile gleamed around her lips for a moment. “Imagine it—being utterly frantic to prove herself a bastard! Ianthe, on the other hand, was the daughter of Roelstra’s wife. If we can provide evidence from Lord Chelan’s own mouth that he and Ianthe were wed—”
“I made inquiries when you asked last winter,” he interrupted. “He lived at a manor on the Syrene border.”
Her eyes lit with silvery sparks. “‘Lived’?”
“And died, and burned there this summer. A wasting sickness, it’s said.”
“Damn him! Damn him for dying!”
Before she could get what she wanted and then kill him herself, Marron thought. But he said nothing.
Mireva inhaled deeply, struggling for calm. “It’s my own fault for not taking care of this sooner.”
“If you had, attention would have fallen on him—and he would have been around our necks.”
“That’s true.” She sighed.
“Ruval will just have to do without,” he said, a trifle more acidly than intended. She fixed an icy gaze on him. “I know, I should’ve told you on starlight. But you’ve both been traveling so much—Cunaxa and all over Princemarch—it was impossible to find you.”
“And you’ve never been very good at that sort of thing,” she snapped. “Are you sufficiently good at palace politics to get me in to see Chiana? Tonight?”
“Tonight—” He swallowed hard. “What do you plan to do to her?”
“What do you think?” she countered.
“You don’t understand about Chiana. She’s—hard.” He explained how he’d been able to nudge her in directions she already favored—such as removing Halian’s sister Gennadi as regent of Waes and reinstating Lord Geir. Though the young man hated Halian’s father for the execution of his parents, he was alive to the advantages of working with Chiana. This had become one more thread of power in his aunt’s grasping little hands. “But she has to think things are all her own idea. Even a hint that you’re trying to influence her, and—”
“Give me credit for being subtle, boy.”
“Well, she’s not,” he said frankly. “She covets Castle Crag the way some covet wine. She’s the only one of Roelstra’s daughters not born there, and she’s never set foot in the place. Pandsala forbade it and Ostvel won’t let her within a hundred measures. But she wants it and would die to possess it even for a day. It’s the symbol of royalty to her.”
Mireva nodded slowly. “After six winters at Goddess Keep, and fifteen more living with whichever half-sister would tolerate her for a while, and finally having her birth publicly doubted—I can understand her. That’s helpful, Marron. But she can’t be allowed to interfere with our right to Princemarch.”
“We need her. We’ll have to give her something.”
“Miyon alone is not enough,” she mused. “He sits atop the Desert, but I need Chiana’s armies to take Princemarch.”
“You mean you’ve allied with that Cunaxan snake?” he gasped.
“Remind me one day to tell you about it.” She grinned at him, then sobered. “So Castle Crag is the key to opening Chiana. Thank you for that, Marron.” Rising, she smoothed her skirts. “I’ll meet you outside the gates later. I’m anxious to meet this Princess of Meadowlord.”
“I’m not sure I can arrange it—”
Her gaze and her fingers grasped at him. “If you wish to live long enough to battle your brother for Princemarch and the Desert, I suggest you find a way. I only need Ruval, you know.”
“And he needs me,” he stated, trying to hide his fright.
She only laughed.
Marron kept his steps firm and even as he left the enclosed garden. But he was shaking by the time he got back to his chamber at the castle. Even in privacy he dared not weaken, however—it was as if he could feel two pairs of eyes, one piercing gray-green and the other fiercely blue, watching him, could hear laughter aimed at him.
A large cup of wine and a memory calmed him. The dranath was less responsible for his renewed confidence than the recollection that Mireva had not caught him in his almost-lie. It was true enough that Ruval’s father was dead, but not of a wasting sickness—unless one included slow poison in that category. Marron might not know the complete range of diarmadhi spells, but he knew very well how to create death in a bottle of wine.
“It’s late. I’m tired.”
“I thought her prattle might amuse your grace,” Marron said diffidently. Chiana shrugged. “There are many such women in the Veresch where I grew up. Harmless, of course, or I would never have brought this one to your grace’s attention. But sometimes one is entertained by their tricks.”
The scowling princess tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. It had not been an entirely successful evening, Marron had heard. Strings repeatedly snapped in the chill night air, putting an early end to the music, and Chiana had been forced to converse with her lowborn guests.
He waited for her decision, playing humble and anxious servitor. At last she shrugged again and nodded.
“Oh, very well, Mirris. Send her to me. Wait—is she clean?”
“I took the liberty, your grace, . . .” He trailed off delicately.
“Fetch her, then. If she amuses me, have her fed and paid afterward.”
“Very good, your grace.”
He stepped out of the chamber, soothing his eyes with the cool length of white-and-gold corridor. A relief after the hundreds of different greens in the private reception room, colors Chiana surrounded herself with in the belief that any and all shades of green suited her auburn looks. Diarmadh’im were as sensitive to color as any Sunrunner; the juxtaposition of hues no forest or meadow would ever know was as acutely painful as a score of lutes playing different tunes, all off-key.
Mireva waited at a back door. She had dressed her part as mountain witch in a many-patched rag of a gown, an old black shawl, and thin wool gloves missing three fingers and a thumb. Stooped, bedraggled, with quivering hands and aimless gestures, if he had not known her, he would not have known her. He hid a grin on recalling Chiana’s fastidious query about her cleanliness, and ordered her to follow him.
“And no begging for money, mind,” he snapped as they paused outside Chiana’s suite. “Amuse her grace and you may see a few coins. Displease her, and you’ll be lucky to leave with your tongue still between your teeth.”
The gray-green gaze twisted up at him, sardonically acknowledging his enjoyment of the role played for the benefit of the young servant who carried the rathiv-wrapped mirror.
Marron scratched at the door, opened it, and announced, “The . . . person, your grace.”
Chiana, magnificent in a yellow-green gown that clashed with the pillows of her chair, waved a languid hand. “A witch, eh?” she said as Mireva approached and bowed several times. “The only witch whom I know to be a witch is the High Princess Sioned.”
“I’ve heard it said that Lady Andrade was, too, Your Splendor.”
“And who would know it better than I?” Chiana laughed mirthlessly. “Very well. Mirris, bring a chair.”
Mireva shook her head and bowed again. “No need, Your Radiance. The floor is good enough for me, especially in such a presence.”