The scream at the end of the Great Hall found hysterical echo at the high table. Meiglan’s face was a horrified mask, her eyes gone black and her skin dead white.
Nearly lost in her piercing cry was the shatter of crystal and the soft groan Riyan gave as he dropped his glass and clutched his trembling fists to his chest.
An old woman ran to Meiglan and hauled her bodily from the room. Rohan saw this from the corner of his eye, grateful that someone had had the sense to remove the girl before her screams infected the whole room. He forced himself to stand straight and still, even though the fragments of Sunrunner heritage in him flinched in response to Riyan’s pain, just as Sioned was quivering at his side. He was High Prince; he could show no reaction and especially no weakness.
And no foolishness, as Andry was still young enough to do. He shouted an order for his faradh’im to seize the man whose lineaments were shifting, changing, hovering between one face and another in obvious struggle to resume his false shape. Nialdan and Oclel ran down the center aisle and got within arm’s reach of the man before a circle of cold white fire sprang up in defense.
Rohan could have told Andry it wouldn’t work. He kept silent as the Sunrunners fell back. The enemy had strength; Rohan had been expecting a manifestation of it for many days now, and thus was not as shocked as he might have been. Still—none of them had ever heard of this aspect of diarmadhi power, the ability to alter one’s face and form. None of them knew how to deal with it. Now, of all times, patience was needed. Strength had been shown; Rohan hoped that waiting would expose weakness. There was nothing else he could do.
At his shoulder, Pol whispered, “It’s Ianthe’s younger son. I recognize the red hair. And where one is, the other must be as well.”
Rohan nodded. “He must be among Miyon’s suite. The search must be conducted by Riyan. Have him take Morwenna with him. They’re the only ones who can sense sorcery through their rings.”
Pol blinked as his old teacher was identified as part-diarmadhi, but recovered quickly. “I’ll have all the Cunaxans rounded up at once.”
Sioned murmured, “Get Rialt to do it. I have the feeling you’re to be a featured performer in this little play.” Miyon had recovered from his stupefaction by this time, and gestured for the red-haired man to be brought forward—as foolish an order as Andry’s had been. Behind the wall of icy flames as tall as his head, the man had begun to laugh. When he walked the rest of the long aisle, Nialdan and Oclel warily trailing him, it was because he chose to do so. The fire formed a cloak around him.
Miyon braced his fists on the table before him. “I am horrified!” he exclaimed. “A sorcerer posing as one of my own guard!”
Rohan slanted a look at him. The shock had been genuine, but not the protestation. Just as he’d expected. “We understand,” he said, knowing Miyon would not hear the irony.
“Do you, my lord? To discover one of that foul race has been in charge of my safety for Goddess knows how long?” Miyon gave an artistic shudder.
“You have our sympathies,” Sioned told him. “Perhaps you would care to withdraw, my lord. Your nerves must be quite shattered.”
Miyon gaped for an instant before recovering his dignity. A flight of dragons couldn’t tear him away from this spectacle.
“No?” Sioned went on. “Very well, then. You must have a great interest in this, after all.”
“Self-interest,” Tobin supplied ingenuously from nearby. What she really meant and what Miyon had to pretend she meant were entirely different things.
“Naturally I wish to know how this came to pass, my lady,” he said to Tobin, who nodded as if she believed him.
Andry spoke up impatiently, outrage blazing in his eyes. “Confine this man at once! There must be some way to—”
“And what would you suggest?” Sioned asked. He had no answer and no chance to think of one, for the man had reached the area before the high table.
He made a sweeping movement with one arm and the fire vanished. In a ringing voice he called out, “I am Marron, grandson of High Prince Roelstra and rightful Lord of Feruche, where I was born of the Princess Ianthe! I am willing to prove my claim against the usurper Pol at a time and place of his choosing!”
If he had expected pandemonium, he was doomed to disappointment. Absolute silence greeted his announcement. Rohan merely lifted a brow.
Pol said, “If I was disposed to entertain this absurd claim, which I am not, I would point out that Feruche belonged to Lord Riyan the moment I placed its ring on his finger.”
“It is you I challenge, not him!”
Andry had gasped on hearing the name, and now said in a tone of deadly quiet, “This man murdered my brother.”
“I am a prince. My person is inviolate unless formal charges are brought against me—and even then I cannot be forcibly detained.” Matron smirked. “Read your own law, High Prince.”
“It’s one we haven’t gotten around to changing,” Rohan admitted with mild regret. “As for formal charges—the murder of Lord Sorin is primary among them.”
“I killed him in self-defense,” Marron shrugged. “He attacked me. If every man who slew an enemy in battle was tried for murder, half the high table here would be long gone. And in any case, no one but a gathering of princes can judge me. I am sworn to no one, I am no man’s vassal. I am a prince.”
“That’s open to debate,” Pol snapped. “I myself saw you helping to kill a dragon. And that law applies to everyone, no matter what station!”
“ ‘Helping’?” Marron grinned at him. “That’s a matter of interpretation. There is no means by which you may arrest or detain me. And you still haven’t answered my challenge.”
Riyan stepped around the high table, still pallid, still rubbing at his fingers. “I accept for Prince Pol. Goddess forbid that he should dirty his hands on you.”
“I do not accept! I challenge Pol, not you!”
“And I say Feruche is mine, and it is me you will fight!” Riyan shouted. “Will it be swords, you bastard excuse for a prince, or sorcerer’s tricks?”
“Neither,” Andry said. “This man has admitted to murdering my brother. His death is mine.”
Marron swung to face him, suddenly wary. In the next instant Riyan groaned and doubled over, his hands twisting into claws as Marron’s sorcery lashed out. Before anyone could draw another breath, Fire engulfed Marron’s body, gold and crimson and so intense that Nialdan and Oclel cried out and shielded their faces. But defense came too late. Andry spread his arms wide, calling down yet more Fire. And when it subsided, there was only the stench of charred flesh and a pathetic scattering of blackened bones on the tiles.
“He knew somehow about the rings, what they signified,” Riyan said.
Ruala nodded. “Even in the brief time since I met him, I’ve learned that it doesn’t do to underestimate Lord Andry.”
They walked together through the back gardens, where Princess Milar’s fountain blossomed taller and stronger than ever in this spring of abundant water. The little stream that meandered through the lush green grass and flowers had overflowed all winter, and even now was barely contained by its banks. Firepots glowed along the pathways and glittered from the little bridge arching over the stream. The stars were bright enough tonight to illumine all but the grotto, and it was to this place that Riyan guided their steps.
She had been the one to come to him. After Rohan, looking sick and stunned, had ordered everyone out of the Great Hall, Riyan had sought the coolness of the fountain. It was only memory that burned around his fingers, but memory was enough to make him plunge his damnably shaking hands in the water. Ruala had found him there.
She paused at the apex of the little bridge and looked up at the stars. “It was a brave thing you did, accepting challenge on Marron’s terms of sorcery.”