Rivenrock Canyon was empty as far as she could tell. But Ruval would be holed up in a cave to escape the day’s heat—and prying eyes. Another memory touched her, of the first time she had ever been inside a dragon cave. It had been at the last Hatching Hunt, after she and Rohan had kept Maarken and his twin brother Jahni from a scorching by a terrified little hatchling. Shell shards and slender broken bones had littered the sand within; she wished Ruval a pleasant day amid the remains of a hundred generations of dragons.
She scanned the cliffs carefully for signs of treachery: piles of loose stone that could fall at a sorcerer’s thought; a pit dug out and covered by cloth, then camouflaged with plants and sand; rope stretched between rocks that would be nearly invisible by night. There was nothing, and that worried her. Everything she knew and everything she intuited about Ianthe’s eldest son pointed to cunning. But then she realized that it was not only as Ianthe’s son, Roelstra’s grandson, that he would be fighting. His claim was based on his lineage, but his challenge had been to sorcery. And by its arts he would battle Pol until one of them lay dead on the sand among the sunbaked flowers.
Returning to the gardens, she dipped her hands yet again into the cool water, indulging a last memory. It had been here that she had seen Pol for the first time. Vision in Fire and Water of a tiny, perfect son, so obviously Rohan’s with his golden hair and finely carved features that her heart had sideslipped in her chest. She had seen herself holding him, nursing him, a welt burned into her shoulder caused by her own Fire. The qualms of last night returned full force. Was it only chance that the scar was not on her shoulder but on her cheek? Or had she truly made some error in bringing that vision to pass, a mistake born of impatience and too-powerful emotion that would be paid for, not only in the mark on her face but in danger to Pol?
During the long days of watching Ianthe from Stronghold, she had seen the three other children several times.
If she had been ruthless enough that night, if she had not concentrated so wholly on Pol, would Ruval, Marron, and Segev have died then? Was the difference in her scars the visible token of a fatal flaw in what she had done?
In such thoughts lay madness. Sioned rose from the fountain and dried her hands on her trousers. What was done was done, and could not be undone. But it terrified her that Pol might suffer for whatever mistake she had made.
She left the gardens for the main courtyard, where horses were being saddled by orange-clad Cunaxans. It was one of Sioned’s curses as a public person that her firegold hair was instantly recognizable; she had never been able to mingle anonymously in any crowd, no matter how plainly she was dressed. When Miyon’s guards saw her, they stopped working, stopped talking, and practically stopped breathing.
“Good morning,” she said to their commander. “I see you’re going out on patrol.”
“Good morning, your grace. We—ah, that is, I—”
Sioned gave him her blandest smile. “It is a patrol you’re going on, you know.”
“Yes, your grace,” he replied helplessly.
She nodded and continued sympathetically, “The suspicion cast on your soldiers by recent events must have been most shocking. To find out that not one but two of the ancient race of sorcerers had infiltrated—somehow.”
“A—shock, your grace.”
“It must be equally a relief to know that your ranks are no longer fouled by their presence. I keep wondering how they got in, though. Granted, sorcery is a powerful tool, but someone must have proposed them to you—perhaps even insisted that you accept them on this important journey.”
The man was almost writhing now, but had wits enough to slide past her implication. She expected nothing else; he would not hold so trusted a position in Miyon’s guard if he was entirely stupid. But neither, she noted with interest, was he willing to take responsibility from his prince for the hiring of the two. He said, “It’s a great relief, your grace, that we are no longer suspect.”
“Of course. Still, it would be interesting to know how they managed it.” She let him sweat out his reply for a moment, then continued, “Be sure to take time to refresh yourselves today. Like so much in the Desert, the heat can be deceptive.”
“I thank your grace.” He bowed. She smiled. She was not yet out of hearing range when he gave an explosive sigh of gratitude for his deliverance.
Miyon would not be so easily dealt with, she knew. If she was lucky, he would take a hint and stay at Stronghold without a direct order from the High Princess. She entered the foyer, hoping no argument would be necessary.
But it had already started without her, and in a manner Sioned never would have believed. Meiglan stood at the top of the steps—actively, stubbornly, and absolutely defying her father for the first time in her life.
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Miyon was demanding in tones of disbelief rather than anger.
“I’m sorry, Father, but I don’t want to leave Stronghold.”
“What you want is of less importance than the smallest grain of sand in the Desert! Your things are packed and ready!” He gestured to the servants who tottered slightly under the weight of caskets and satchels. “You’re going to get on your horse and—”
“No, I am not.”
Sioned blinked, almost as astonished as Miyon. But she was forced to grudging admiration of Meiglan’s tactics; perhaps the girl wasn’t entirely the fool she seemed. Or perhaps she was no fool at all. The timing and location of her defiance had been nicely planned. She had obviously come along meekly enough—until she had an audience. Sioned had always thought it bad taste and worse policy to conduct a private quarrel in public, though she knew people who argued anywhere they felt like it with what they considered a fine aristocratic disdain for anyone else’s opinion. But Meiglan required witnesses—especially the emissary of another prince. Lord Barig stood on the landing in the upper hall, frankly staring as Miyon raised his voice.
“How dare you, you little slut!”
She didn’t even flinch. Sioned’s brows shot up. Perhaps association with women who said and did what they liked without fear of their men had put some backbone into the girl.
“Her grace the High Princess told me I may stay as long as I want,” Meiglan said. “And I don’t want to leave.”
“You don’t want—?” he echoed in shock.
“What’s all the fuss?”
This, mildly and innocently, from Tallain, who arrived with Sionell down the second flight of stairs. Meiglan’s face lit momentarily at this new source of strength and support, a light quickly hidden by downcast lashes. Sioned leaned against the newel post, folded her arms, grinned, and shamelessly settled in to watch Tallain do her work for her.
Miyon was grinding his teeth, but managed to be civil. “I have neglected my princedom too long this spring. It’s time I left for Castle Pine.”
“Left? But surely you must understand how much you’re needed here, my lord!” Tallain looked and sounded sincerely troubled. Sioned bit her lip to keep from laughing. Rohan himself couldn’t have done it so well. “Lord Barig is fortunately present to carry the truth to his cousin of Gilad, but you’re the only other impartial prince at Stronghold and your value as a witness is inestimable.”
“That’s right,” Sionell said, as if she’d just thought of it. “My lord is so very wise.” She cast an adoring glance at Tallain, so overdone that it nearly destroyed Sioned’s determination not to laugh. “You simply must stay, my lord. Your word will be essential at the Rialla—a formal inquiry is certain.”
“So you see we really must stay, Father,” Meiglan added.