He could not have been. He was at Stronghold.
The girl sank back into her pillows. “Do you think it was just a dream?” she ventured.
“I think that’s exactly what it was.” Sionell made an effort, and smiled. “When I was carrying Talya, I used to dream the oddest things—and then wake up the whole residence asking for the most absurd things to eat!”
A little smile hovered around her soft mouth. “Did you really, my lady?”
“Yes, I did—and no more of this ‘my lady’ nonsense. I’m Sionell and I’m your friend, Meiglan. Lie back now, and close your eyes.”
“I’m sorry I woke everyone. I feel such a fool—all for a silly dream.”
“Don’t think about it another instant.”
“You’re so kind, my–Sionell,” she corrected shyly. “And so beautiful—may I really call you my friend?”
No one could possibly be this innocent—most especially not someone with Miyon of Cunaxa for a father. Sionell was ashamed of herself, even while wondering once more if she was supposed to feel that way.
“Of course, my dear.” She patted Meiglan’s hand and rose. “Go to sleep.”
Rialt was in the antechamber, explaining to the maid that Meiglan had been upset by a dream. Sionell waited until he pronounced the wine suitable in taste and temperature for soothing a frightened lady to sleep, then took him firmly by the arm and led him out of the room.
Before she could speak, he did. “My lady—the description she gave—”
“Yes,” she said evenly. “Down to the detail of the rings.” It was exactly what she had been thinking, but to hear it aloud from someone else brought a paradoxical denial to her lips. “I think you’re placing rather too much significance on—”
“Of course.” His face wore no expression at all.
“Good night, Rialt. Thank you for your help.”
“Good night, my lady.”
There were candles lit in her bedchamber, and Tallain was missing. Sionell crawled back into bed and stared across the room at the tapestry that had been Pol’s wedding gift. A flight of bright dragons soared through deep blue skies above Tiglath, every detail stitched with exquisite accuracy—down to the section of wall demolished by the Merida in the year of Pol’s birth. Tallain’s father had decreed that the rubble be left symbolically unrepaired. “The walls Rohan will build for us will be stronger than any stone.”
Tonight Sionell saw other symbolism in that battered wall. She had seen to her own defenses for two years now, building them of marriage and motherhood and the demands of ruling over her adopted holding. She loved her husband deeply and honestly, and adored her daughter; she was challenged and satisfied by her life as Lady of Tiglath. There was only that one small place where the grown woman had been unable to build an adult defense against a girlhood dream.
Had Meiglan truly dreamed tonight? Or had she merely said that she dreamed?
Whichever, Sionell now understood why the girl was here. It was so ludicrously obvious that she kicked herself for not realizing it before.
She is everything he has never seen before in a woman.
Pol had been surrounded by strong, capable, confident women all his life. None of them could even remotely be described as delicate and shy. Despite her looks, Tobin was about as frail as a plow-elk; Sioned possessed the power and fierceness of a she-dragon; Audrite’s gentle manners covered a tough, brilliant mind; Hollis, the quietest of them, had all the meekness of a sandstorm.
Miyon’s scornful treatment of this fragile child was enough to rouse anyone’s protective instincts. But no one had ever in their lives insulted Sioned, Tobin, Feylin, or any of the other women Pol knew by thinking or suggesting they required protecting. Their husbands would have laughed themselves into apoplexies at the very notion.
But Meiglan. . . .
And she was so damned beautiful.
Her differences alone would attract him. Her father’s ill-usage would help. And her beauty would do the rest.
Pol wasn’t that big a fool. He’d see through this. He had to. The thought of his falling into Miyon’s trap was ridiculous.
The thought of him married to Meiglan was insupportable.
When Tallain’s interest had been brought to Sionell’s attention after the last Rialla, she had fought an interior battle which was more than just a war between head and heart. Strongly attracted by both the person and the position of the Lord of Tiglath, still her emotions and mind also drew her to Pol. Hers had been the choice of which portion of each to heed. Now she struggled with the same confusion of feeling and intellect.
She was genuinely fond of Meiglan—or at least felt genuinely sorry for her. Practicality forced her to admit that dowering the girl might bring extremely important concessions from Miyon—whom Tiglath must deal with much more immediately than Dragon’s Rest ever would. But she was also jealous, an emotion bolstered by the certainty that no Choice would be politically or personally worse for Pol than Meiglan. Miyon would use the girl against him any way he could. Pol would be twenty times a fool if he married her.
Still—he wasn’t that blind. And if he didn’t see it, Rohan or Sioned would.
And if they didn’t, Sionell would waste no time in pointing it out to them.
Tallain came back and collapsed into bed with a martyred sigh. “One story, two glasses of water, and three lullabies,” he reported before she could ask. “Sionell, I will adore any children you give me. But please do me the favor of having them one at a time! Twins would be the death of me!”
“Once Antalya is their age, you’ll think she is twins.”
“I was afraid of that. What was all the fuss?”
“Meiglan had a dream.”
“Oh. Good thing we put her father in the other wing—Goddess knows how long it would’ve taken to calm her if he’d been there jeering at the poor child.”
She hollowed out a comfortable position in his arms and smiled. She had never regretted marrying Tallain, never mourned for an instant that he wasn’t Pol. “Good night, love,” she whispered in the darkness. “Gentle dreams.”
“Mmm,” he responded. “I’m holding the best one . . . not the sweetest, perhaps—not with your temper—but definitely the best.”
“Oh, keep talking,” Sionell purred. “I love it.”
“And me.”
“And you.”
“I know,” he said smugly.
“Conceited swine.”
14
Stronghold: 26 Spring
Fifteen years in the rich coastal lands of Goddess Keep had not blunted Andry’s Desert-bred reaction to spring. He still watched the fields respond to the lengthening days with wide-eyed wonderment, and knew his Sunrunners often grinned behind their hands when he expressed his amazement at the yearly renewal. But as he rode with Oclel and Nialdan down from Feruche that spring, his companions laughed openly at the stunned silence with which he greeted the Desert’s incredible blooming.
“You’d think he’d never seen a flower before,” Nialdan teased.
Andry finally found his voice. “You don’t understand. All you’re seeing is what you’ve seen all your life. What I’m seeing is a miracle.”
One that Sorin would never witness.
Andry had spent two days at Feruche, the first time he had ever been to his brother’s castle. It had been nearly as painful as that abrupt, searing moment when he’d known Sorin was dead. Feruche was permeated with his twin’s energy, thoughtfulness, and disciplined taste in design and decoration. Every stone, every timber, every tapestry had been selected and set with care and purpose; the castle was a marvel of beauty and strength, neither dominant, each existing within and complementing the other. Andry walked hallways Sorin had planned, slept in rooms Sorin had embellished, ran his fingers over wood carved to Sorin’s specifications, stood in the great hall where Sorin had sat to administer justice. Anguish, deadened somewhat by the long, exhausting ride from Goddess Keep, had returned full force. He had spent the night before last in Sorin’s private chambers, looking out at the moon-drenched sand. And at last he had given way to tears, as he had not done even when the first brutal impact of death had slammed into his senses.