He gave a violent start when Nialdan cleared his throat. The big man shrugged an apology. “Sorry, my Lord.”
Andry smiled thinly. “Uproot yourself from the floor and go see what’s keeping Torien.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
With Nialdan gone, Andry could give in to nerves and pace. He was used to circling a room; the gatehouse was long and narrow, and the change in pattern unsettled him even more. He stopped by the table again and poured wine into the goblets for something to do with his hands. The dranath sifted down from his rubbing palms, fine powder vanishing instantly into the green-gold wine.
“My Lord?” Nialdan came back in, leaving the staircase door open behind him. “Torien says they’re about ready. He’ll be up in a moment. Oclel’s making doubly sure about the swords and arrows.”
Oclel was Nialdan’s good friend and the only man at Goddess Keep big enough to give him a decent workout with a sword. Born in Princemarch of a huntsman’s daughter and a soldier who had fought for Roelstra in 704, Oclel had married the mother of Andry’s elder daughter. Andry preferred it so. Rusina had not wanted the child he’d given her on her first-ring night. Already in love with Oclel, she bore Tobren grudgingly and had wanted nothing to do with her from the day of her birth. Another woman had nursed the child, and Valeda took care of Tobren’s need for affection.
Othanel, mother of his only son, was another matter entirely. Triumphant in her pregnancy, she kept little Andrev close and barely allowed him to play with other children, as if fearing contamination. She was possessive and jealous, barely able to hide her fury when first Rusina and then Valeda bore Andry’s children, and not bothering to hide her glee when both women birthed daughters. Contemplation of Rusina’s anger and Othanel’s ambition brought an uncomfortable memory of his mother’s stinging rebuke at the last Rialla. When he’d tried to explain that both babies were too young to travel, Tobin had exploded like heat lightning across the Desert sky.
“What are you afraid we’ll see? Children conceived not because you care a damn about their mothers—which you don’t—but because you want your own little brood of Sunrunners? Not even Andrade went that far!”
“Didn’t she? What are you and Rohan but her experiments in faradhi royalty? Not to mention Pol!”
Maarken had come by later that night. Man-to-man reasoning left Andry unmoved, but when Maarken’s temper flared he capitulated. He had never gone against his adored eldest brother’s wishes in his life.
And, truthfully, he didn’t regret the meeting last summer in Syr. Time spent with Andrev and Tobren had softened his mother’s wrath. Sorin made the journey from Feruche to High Kirat, Maarken came with his family from Whitecliff, and Tilal from Athmyr. Kostas, a father now himself, presided over the whole noisy crowd with a sardonic grin. The eight children—Andry’s, Maarken’s, Kostas’, and Tilal’s—had seemed bent on demolishing anything that got within reach of their fists, including, on occasion, each other. For ten days it was almost as if they were any ordinary big family.
Rohan, Sioned, and Pol had sent their regrets. Andry understood perfectly. They would let the others make the initial moves toward peace. Thus this current visit by Maarken and Hollis.
It fit in perfectly with Andry’s own plans. He knew now the method by which he would change that future of horror and blood.
Maarken had to understand.
Torien appeared at last, visibly annoyed by the delay. “But everything’s ready now, my Lord. They’re waiting for you to begin.”
He nodded and gestured to Nialdan, who emptied his goblet in two large gulps. Andry took a little longer at it, savoring the slow pulse of the drug in his body. He had been careful to use only enough for an increase of power—he’d heard from Maarken how Hollis had suffered after her addiction to dranath. He didn’t want that for any of his people, and certainly not for himself. But the augmentation of gifts was too important to reject dranath completely.
When he could feel its effects—soft heat in his cheeks, a tingling in his groin, a flush of energy through his body—he straightened his clothing and went to the balcony that overlooked the courtyard. Taking another lesson from Rohan, he had chosen his clothes carefully: wool trousers dyed red, white shirt and short white tunic. Radzyn’s colors, meant to remind Maarken that whatever he might witness today, they were of the same place, the same heritage.
“Your cloak, my Lord?” Torien murmured behind him, and he shook his head. A breeze off the sea quickened the air, but he wasn’t cold. He never was, except in the depths of winter. The joke around Goddess Keep was that he’d soaked up so much Desert sun in childhood that he’d never feel anything but the worst blizzard the Father of Storms exhaled from the icy heart of the Veresch.
Many of those below him were in warm woolen gowns and tunics, with cloaks against the wind. Several wore the hoods pulled up—perhaps to keep their ears warm, and perhaps to hide their reaction to whatever shocking innovation Andry was about to present. He shrugged, but made mental note of them anyway. They could be sent elsewhere for duty and cease to trouble him. Again he thought of Urival, whose removal from Goddess Keep had been no guarantee of lack of trouble. Whatever Pol now knew of faradhi arts, it was too much—because Andry had not been the one to teach him.
This wasn’t the time to think about that, either. He rested his hands lightly on the smooth balcony rail and surveyed the assembly with justifiable pride. The Sunrunners, students, and servants of Goddess Keep numbered over four hundred—two-thirds of them faradh’im at various levels of expertise.
In Andrade’s time there had been as many non-gifteds here as Sunrunners. The reason was not talent, but money. Prior to Andry’s rule here, students were required to give to Goddess Keep that share of their parents’ wealth that would have dowered them. No prejudice was attached to the gift’s size; the price of a few sheep, all Nialdan had brought, weighed equally with the substantial slice of Radzyn’s wealth that had been Andry’s portion. Indeed, it was this princely sum that had allowed him to cancel the dowry custom. Parents loath to sell off goods for the stipulated cash were now perfectly happy to send gifted sons and daughters to become Sunrunners; the other children benefited through increased dowries. Andry had brought with him more than enough to make up for any loss of income. It afforded him a certain grim amusement to wonder how Rohan would have worked it out if Pol had come here; he was dowered with all Princemarch.
They probably would have done what Chay and Tobin did with Maarken—told Andrade that if she wanted Whitecliff (his dowry while his father lived), she could come collect it lock, stock, and paddock.
But Andry had insisted on giving the whole of his fortune to Goddess Keep. He could have had almost any place he wanted in the Desert, a manor or castle and honors befitting the son of the Battle Commander and the grandson of a prince. But this keep was all he had ever wanted. Now it was his. And, thanks to him, wealthier and more populous than Andrade had ever dared hope.
And all of them looked to him for guidance. No one, not even those chosen for this demonstration, knew of his terrible vision and the dreams that haunted his sleep. Caution told him they must trust him for himself, not out of fright of a dreaded future. They must follow him because they believed in him, give him loyalty, dedicate themselves to him so that when he finally revealed his reasons, faith would conquer fear. They must be certain to their bones that he would teach them how to use their gifts against the coming battle and blood.
He could not glimpse his brother’s head in the crowd, and so looked for Hollis’ distinctive tawny hair. Where she was, Maarken would be. At last he located them by the well. He murmured to Torien, “Take my brother and his lady closer to the gates. I want them to have an unobstructed view.”