“You’ve used it,” Pol said aggressively. “Why shouldn’t we?”
Rohan’s fingers probed and pushed, twisted, tugged, and tested. Swearing under his breath, he drew back slightly. “Look here, you can see where it fits into the wall. There’s a little seam in the stone. But it won’t work!”
“Maybe they fouled it somehow,” Chay suggested. Then, with an odd look at Myrdal, “How many of these little secrets are there around here?”
“A lot more than in Radzyn,” she replied smugly. “I think this one’s hopeless. I’ve opened plenty of others and they all work perfectly. Chaynal’s right, it was broken somehow.”
“Deliberately?” Sioned asked.
Rohan sighed. “It doesn’t much matter. So much for my first brilliant idea. We’ll have to try another—” He broke off and stared at the stone carvings.
“Father? What is it?”
He ignored his son, addressing Myrdal instead. “You said they traded control of Stronghold back and forth, finding out each other’s secrets, putting new ones in.”
“Yes, but—”
He ran his fingers over the stone, inspecting each shadow. “By logic, this is the room. All the others would be difficult to explore without getting caught. She wouldn’t want to draw attention to herself. This has to be it.”
Sioned reluctantly pointed out, “But the sorcery, Rohan. We can’t know what she’s able to do. Nothing ever prepared us for shape-changing. There could be any number of other things—”
“But only one star carved into this wall!” he interrupted triumphantly.
“By the Goddess’ works and marvels,” Myrdal breathed.
“Careful,” Chay warned. “They might be expecting us.”
Rohan was counting on it. He looked again at the Sunrunners. “Ready yourselves. We’re not likely to be welcomed with open arms.”
There was an exit to his own bedchamber marked with a star, something Myrdal had shown Sioned years ago. One pressed gently on the carving until it gave, then turned it to the left. He held his breath again as he manipulated the star symbol, hoping it worked the same way.
It moved. The seam parted—slowly at first, then faster. A gap opened from head-height to floor, grew wider as a section of stone slid back. Something rustled within, a heavy sound that set his heart beating rapidly with excitement and apprehension. He stood his ground.
From the blackness leaped a hatchling dragon colored the slick red of fresh blood. Its head reared back on a furious shriek, wings spread wide, gleaming claws ripping at the air. It doubled in size as it surged into the room, roaring a challenge. The creature was every nightmare of dragon that ever was, down to the flames that spewed toward the ceiling beams from jaws powerful enough to snap a man in two. The throat pulsed as another gout of fire hissed forth. Another hideous roar, a flexing of the massive muscles in the wings—and blazing ruby eyes fixed on Rohan.
He had looked into dragon eyes before. None had been like this. Will drained from him like water into sand. He was nothing. The flames would burn him to nothing, crisp his flesh and bones to ash on the blackened stones. . . .
“Rohan!”
The word barely made sense to him. His name? Yes. Sioned’s voice. Sioned—
She screamed his name again and this time he responded, terrified not for himself but for her. He tore his gaze from the dragon’s compelling ruby eyes and realized with vague astonishment that he had toppled to the floor. The dragon loomed over him; he could see its wing lifting to block out the ceiling like a blood-red cloud across a white sky.
But it should have been black. The fire should have scorched whitewashed rafters and stone. Unreal. He scrabbled for purchase, and had barely regained his feet when the dragon lashed out with blade-sharp talons. They passed right through him and left him whole.
He laughed up into the hot, glowing eyes, dizzy with relief. The dragon was not a shape assumed by Mireva herself, but a conjuring, harmless as morning mist. Into the gaping darkness of the hiding hole he shouted, “If this is the best you can do, try again!”
The dragon vanished. In its place stood a young man with dark hair and Ianthe’s eyes, a death’s grin on his handsome face. “Better, High Prince?”
Rohan crossed the distance separating them, confident that this was illusion, too. But the taunting laughter was real. The knife that plunged into his shoulder was real. The pain was real.
“No!” Riyan staggered forward, hands contorted in familiar agony. He slammed into Ruval, knocking him down. The blood-stained knife clattered to the stones. Chay’s boot descended on the blade as Ruval’s fingers groped for it.
Riyan’s abrupt sundering of the defensive weave left Pol momentarily blind. From behind its protection he had seen the conjured dragon, a terrifying sight but one he knew could not harm his father. It had no substance. His senses—Sunrunner? Sorcerer?—told him without his conscious awareness.
But the knife was real. As he sensed its solid steel panic flooded his whole body, shattering the weave as surely as Riyan’s sudden departure from it. But Ruval moved too fast. Pol’s vision cleared and he surged forward, ready to kill. Before he could get there, Riyan had twisted around to clasp the shaking form tight in his arms. They rolled against the wall beside the gaping blackness, Ruval protected by Riyan’s body. Chay, not as vulnerable to the lash of sorcery against his consciousness, rushed forward with a knife.
“No!” Riyan cried again. “It’s not him! My rings are burning the flesh from my fingers—it’s not Ruval! It’s Ruala!”
Pol stared down in shock as the tall, muscular shape shifted to a slighter one with slender curves and tangled black hair. Trousers and shirt and tunic were all that remained of the illusion of Ruval.
Rohan recovered first. He pulled Riyan and the dazed, half-conscious young woman to their feet. Then he winced and leaned against the wall, clutching his arm. Sioned pried his fingers away from the wound. Her scowl worried Pol, but her words dispelled his fear. “As if you didn’t have enough scars, you great fool!” She ripped the sleeve off and tied it around his arm to stop the bleeding.
Rohan made a face at her rough handling that, even more than her scolding, indicated the wound was not serious. Turning to Pol, he said grimly, “She’s still in there. Unless there’s an escape built into that hole.”
Maarken pushed by his father, who was helping Riyan and Ruala to nearby chairs.
“Maarken—no!” Pol exclaimed, but his cousin was already ducking past into the darkness. There was a blaze of light, a startled cry of pain, and Maarken stumbled back against Pol.
“Merciful Goddess,” he breathed. Then, rallying, he said, “Well, at least we know where she is.”
Andry came to his brother’s side. “You idiot—she might have killed you. Are you all right?”
Maarken nodded. “Shaken a little. There’s quite a bit to this sorcery,” he said with deceptive mildness. “We can’t go in, that’s obvious. But if she could have escaped, I think she would have done it by now.”
“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I have no taste for waiting her out.” Andry turned. “Sioned, can you weave some sort of protection for yourself and the others?”
“Yes, I think so, but—”
“Please do so.” He met Pol’s gaze in sardonic challenge. “Well? Shall we see which of us she most wants dead?”
“Interesting decision for her,” he replied. “Ready?”
Andry nodded. He murmured something under his breath then called, “Did you hear me, creature? Your choice! The Lord of Goddess Keep or the next High Prince! Which of us would be easiest for you?”
“Whichever of us you destroy, the other will come in after you!” Pol shouted.
Laughter floated from the darkness. “Which of you has the courage to come to me for your death?”
“No!” Rohan hissed behind them. “Don’t go in! Bring her out!”