She said nothing, merely stared down at her hands.
“If you didn’t believe that, you never would have taken him from Feruche that night.”
“Of course I believe it!” she cried. “But will he? That’s another decision he’ll have to make—which of us was his true mother!”
“If you doubt what choice he’d make, you don’t know him.”
“Don’t talk as if we won’t ever have to tell him the truth! When he finds out I’ve lied to him his whole life—”
“You weren’t the one who begot him of rape. If we’re portioning out guilt, mine is the dragon’s share.”
“But I was the one who created the lie. Rohan ... I could stand it if he rejected me. I think I could, anyway. But it would kill me if he rejected himself. His life is based on two facts: he is a prince and a Sunrunner. How will he feel when he finds out that what he thinks are Sunrunner gifts are really signs of sorcerer’s blood?”
Rohan leaned forward and grasped her unwilling hands in his own. “Listen to me. You have to trust him, Sioned. He’ll be angry and hurt at first. He won’t understand. But we’re his parents. He loves us.”
She gave him a cynical little smile. “We’ve already judged ourselves, Rohan, and been found guilty. We’d better hope Pol decides differently, and is more forgiving.”
At that moment Pol was deciding nothing more weighty than whether or not to take the stretch of dunes before him at a gallop. Though his stallion, Pashoc, had better manners than to test the bit, there was an impatient dance to his steps that could only be expected of a son of Rohan’s old war-horse. He wanted a run, and he wanted it now.
Pol was tempted. He glanced back over his shoulder at the others—Maarken, Hollis, and their children were grouped with Andry and Nialdan; Feylin and Sionell rode with Riyan, Ruala, and Meiglan. Guard duty was shared among six of Miyon’s men and six of Stronghold’s, riding at a discreet distance though the Cunaxans looked as if they wanted to be closer. But no one rode ahead of Pol, and he could let Pashoc have his head at any time. That would shake them all up a bit, he thought with a hidden grin. His own people were nervous enough about this little expedition today without his bolting off into the distance unescorted.
Still ... he shared the horse’s impatience, mixed in with a dose of recklessness and a perverse desire to startle. Pashoc sensed his choice in the fractional shift of weight in the saddle and hands on the reins, and the instant Pol touched his heels to sleek flanks, the stallion was off like an arrow.
“Pol!” yelled Maarken, the shout fading as wind rushed through his hair and hooves pounded on packed sand. The Desert blurred to pale golden light around him, edged by fierce blue sky. Pashoc reached for more distance with every stride, slowing only a little going up each dune, gaining speed on the descents. Pol laughed and imagined himself with dragon wings, skimming over the bright world far below.
At last he signaled a slower pace. As the stallion pulled back from full gallop to canter to a walk that expressed his impatience for yet more speed, Pol surveyed the landscape, breathless not from the ride but from amazement.
The Desert, usually golden-white accented by dusty green scrub along the Vere Hills, was alive with color. A fabric of flowers spread across the dunes like silk draped over the sweet curves of a woman’s body. The patchwork of brilliant orange and vivid scarlet and deepest turquoise changed to bronze and dark crimson and violet in the hollows, accented by traceries of water-rich green, all of it stitched to a background of white-gold sand. Around Stronghold the Desert had bloomed this spring, but here water and long-dormant seeds had burst into wealth worthy of Meadowlord or Syr.
Pol nearly leaped off his horse to plunge his hands into that incredible treasure of color. But the sand-muted thud of hooves behind him recalled him to princely dignity just in time. He turned in the saddle, unsurprised to find it was Maarken and Andry who had caught up to him first. The horses they rode were Radzyn breed, as long-legged and swift as Pashoc.
“Can you believe this?” he called out, gesturing to the hills. “It’s as if the Desert itself has a pattern everyone can see, not just a Sunrunner.”
The brothers reined in nearby. Andry shook the hair from his eyes and gave Pol a wide smile. “Nialdan and Oclel teased me for being so stunned by the colors,” he confided. “Nobody not Desert-born can understand our reactions to this. And being faradhi makes us all the more sensitive to it.”
Maarken nodded. “You should have seen the twins at New Year, when the south began to bloom. They came back from a ride covered in flower-dust and reeking of perfume—the little monsters actually rolled in a field of rock-roses!”
“Stark naked,” Pol guessed, and his cousin laughed. “Sounds wonderful, but I think we’d shock the ladies if we tried it.”
“Are you joking? Hollis and Sionell would join us!” Andry grinned. “Nialdan’s the one who’d have a fit—he has such exalted ideas of highborn behavior.”
Maarken’s brows lifted. “Then you’ve never told him about the time we—”
“I have a position to uphold,” Andry informed him haughtily, but his eyes were dancing the lie to his tone. “Anyway, he’d never believe I was ever a little boy who followed my criminally inclined eldest brother into mischief.”
“Criminally inclined?” Maarken took a playful swing at his shoulder. “And what d’you mean, followed me? You were the one who thought up the exploding goat bladder filled with pepper.”
“Inspired,” Pol contributed. “I tried it at Graypearl once, but a fish bladder didn’t produce the same effect. Besides, I couldn’t wash the smell off my hands and got caught.”
“We had the same problem,” Andry reminisced. “And tried to solve it with half a jar of Mother’s hand cream.”
“Which gave us away as surely as goat-stink would have,” Maarken added. “We three little wretches smelled suspiciously sweet, and our fingers were so slippery that none of us could hold a spoon that night at dinner!”
They shared more memories of childhood escapades while waiting for the others to catch up. Pol was almost sorry when they did. His relationship with Maarken had always been comfortable and affectionate, but it was a very long time since he’d shared such easy humor and companionship with Andry.
He wondered how much effort the Lord of Goddess Keep had to put into pretending to like the Ruler of Princemarch—as much as the Ruler of Princemarch was giving to pretending he liked the Lord of Goddess Keep?
Pol was a little ashamed of himself. They didn’t have to be their titles all the time. They were members of the same family, with the same blood and the same heritage and the same love of this Desert that belonged to them all.
When the others approached, Maarken fixed a stern gaze on the younger men. “If either of you tell Chayla or Rohannon any of this—”
“Us?” Andry sent an innocent glance toward Pol, who grinned.
“Let ’em think up their own trouble to get into. From what I hear, they’re already quite creative.”
“And will only get worse.” Maarken sighed. “They’re own parents’ revenge, you know—grandchildren. I wouldn’t be surprised if Father put them up to the unstitched pillows trick last winter. Every time anybody sat down. . . .” He grimaced.
“I never tried that one,” Andry said thoughtfully.
“I’ll have my brats teach yours someday,” Maarken offered generously.
“Too kind!”
“What’s a brother for?”
Pol laughed and reined Pashoc around to greet the late arrivals. As he had expected, Meiglan was last, riding the most placid mare in the Stronghold stables. Sionell and Feylin had stayed with her, and one of Miyon’s guards, for it was obvious that she was far from being an expert horsewoman. He smiled encouragement at her and when the party was fully assembled once again, led the way along the trail to Rivenrock.