He closed and locked the coffer, storing it with the other dangerous one in the secret space. Sioned might just get away with it, he mused. Nothing in the archives even hinted that Ianthe’s fourth son had not died at Feruche. Everyone knew she had been pregnant; many believed the child had indeed been Rohan’s. Ostvel had been at Stronghold that summer and autumn, when Sioned had emptied the keep of all but three servants and spread word that she was pregnant again. Two of those servants had since died, their knowledge of the secret blown away with their ashes on Desert winds. The one who remained—Tibalia, a young girl at the time and now in charge of all maidservants at Stronghold—was trusted implicitly. At Skybowl, where Sioned and Ostvel and Tobin had fled from Feruche and where Pol had been Named, the story was that Sioned, furious beyond reason at knowing Ianthe carried Rohan’s child, had gone to destroy her rival—and that the strain of the journey had brought Pol’s premature birth. No one had ever questioned this tale, though Ostvel was never able to decide whether it was really believed or not. Still, Skybowl’s people had kept the secret of dragon gold. Whatever they truly believed, they could be trusted. And surely any rumors would have surfaced long ere this.
So Sioned was probably safe in her deception. Goddess knew, she had paid dearly for it. Ianthe’s sniggering reference to multiple rapes had knifed through his heart, and with more than the anguish of knowing proud Sioned had been used thus. For to her, none of it had ever happened. She had never said a word about what had been done to her at Feruche; Ostvel had learned of it from Rohan. Neither did she ever speak of that summer and autumn of waiting, or of the night Feruche had burned. None of it existed for her. Sometimes he wondered if she even had a clear memory of that time. He truly believed she had gone a little mad that year. He knew from experience that agony and terror and grief must be cleansed from the heart. Sioned’s wounds were still open and bleeding. Ostvel had known her since childhood; she could hide very little from him.
He twisted the small carving of gilded elk-hoof that fit cunningly into the wood paneling. Myrdal had noted that other Secret rooms, doors, and passages were opened with a similar carving that depicted a rising star. Ostvel found it intriguing that Pol’s name was the key to Castle Crag’s secrets, and eerie that Ianthe had written words calling him what Sioned had Named him. And, strangest of all, the same stars provided the light used by diarmadh’im.
The word meant “Stoneburners” and came from the manner in which rock cairns glowed during certain ritual sorceries. Urival shared odd bits of Star Scroll knowledge with Sioned on sunlight, and she passed on some of them to Donato, Ostvel’s court Sunrunner and a friend of their youth. Stars were everywhere these days, it seemed: used in sorcery, Pol’s name, indicating Castle Crag’s secrets—could the place have been built by these diarmadh’im?
Ostvel stretched the weariness from his shoulders, reminded by various impudent aches that this would be his forty-eighth winter. A smile formed as he reflected on where those winters had taken him—from obscure retainer at Goddess Keep to Regent of Princemarch. He had a grown son who was faradhi and lord of his own keep, and an infant daughter whose mother was a princess, and—
He gasped. It was two years ago today that he had married that princess. He barely remembered to lock the library door before sprinting to his suite. A frantic search in his wardrobe had him cursing. He’d had the ring made, he knew he had. Alasen had given him his ring last year; by Kierstian tradition, the partner superior in rank had a second year to decide about continuing the marriage. But this year he could claim her and—where was that damned ring?
Finding it at last, he sat back on his heels and sighed his relief—and toppled over in startlement as he heard Alasen laughing softly behind him.
“I was beginning to wonder,” she said, smiling, “if you were expecting me to divorce you. After all, that ring is the only one I ever really wanted.”
3
722: Skybowl
“You’ll be off to Feruche in the morning?” Riyan asked as he and Sorin mounted the steps to the central hall.
“Why don’t you come with me for a few days? I could use your advice. My little army of architects have battled each other until I’ve forgotten what I originally wanted to do with the place!” Sorin winced. “It took a whole year to clean out the ruins and make sure what was left wouldn’t collapse. Then we had to sort out the usable stone and set it aside for when we needed it. And then another year before the new foundation was set.”
“But you have started to build?”
“At last—and if you can call it that. Miyon hasn’t been exactly eager to pay up his bet to Aunt Sioned.”
Riyan sighed involuntarily with relief as they entered the cool dimness of the foyer. A mere fifteen measures away in the Veresch Mountains, autumn had already brought crisp days and chilly nights. But here in the Desert it was still stiflingly hot, even at nearly sunset.
Sorin continued his good-natured complaints. “He stalled on delivering the iron last winter and again in spring. And all this time we’ve been living in excruciatingly close quarters in the old barracks below the castle. I’ve lost track of how many fights I’ve broken up over what tower goes where, which windows should face what direction, and how many rooms there should be. Do you know we’re still arguing over whether it’s to be a defensive keep or not?”
“Considering the proximity of Cunaxa, the thicker the walls, the better.”
“Granted. But building a warrior’s castle isn’t my idea of fun, and it would be a direct challenge to Miyon and his Merida allies to come and try to tear it down.”
“What does Rohan say about it?”
“He grins and tells me to let the Cunaxans watch and fume while my new keep is built with their iron. But they’re more likely to be laughing. Goddess! You don’t know the half of it. Bracing up the old dungeons was a nightmare.”
Riyan chuckled at his friend’s tribulations. “I heard that out of the kindness of his heart, Miyon sent down his best smiths to work the iron.”
“And I packed them all back to Cunaxa,” Sorin replied vigorously. “It seems their mission was to build me a castle whose underpinnings would make it tilt like a drunken merchant. Before it fell down altogether, that is!”
The two young men washed their hands and faces in a large stone bowl set into a wall embrasure and accepted towels from a waiting servant. Then they checked their relative tidiness in a mirror on a nearby wall. Sorin paused to run careful fingers over the delicate frame, carved with intertwined leaves and apples.
“It’s beautiful. As if dark liquid gold was washed over it.”
“It was my mother’s,” Riyan said. “She never lived at Skybowl, but lots of her things are here. Father brought them from Stronghold when Rohan gave him this castle.”
“I remember her a little, I think.”
“I wish I remembered her more.” Then, more easily, he continued, “Well, we’re as clean as we’ll get without baths. Can’t do anything about the horse-stink, but I trust we won’t offend the ladies.”
“Alasen won’t mind and Feylin never notices—and Sionell’s probably as dirty as we are.”
“Now, now! She’s growing up!” Riyan grinned as he gestured to a guard to open the doors to the main hall.
“Mm’m. Pol’s doing the same at Graypearl, I’m told. Your father had a long talk with Chadric at the Rialla, and Sionell’s not been shy about demanding every detail!”
Riyan spotted Sionell immediately. She sat by Alasen at the high table, playing with his half-sister, Camigwen. Small Jeni was two years old, with Ostvel’s dark hair and gray eyes, but in feature was exactly like her mother.