wide and shadowy, his cheeks pallid, lips moving in soundless whispers.
“Andry? What is it, love?” Tobin asked, though she was afraid she knew very well.
Sorin squirmed around and touched his brother’s arm, smooth forehead wrinkling with concern. But what one twin sensed, the other could not. Tobin shifted into the moonlight and gasped at the touch.
Goddess blessing, my sister. Forgive me for startling Andry. Tobin—oh, Tobin, she’s taken Rohan, Ianthe holds him inside Feruche! Roelstra camps near the Faolain ready for attack, and the Merida may already be at war with us in the north. Chay must summon the southern vassals and take the field against Roelstra soon—Ianthe has Rohan—the northern army must defend Tiglath—there’s no one to go to Feruche—tell Chay to come quickly, please! He must!
Tobin swayed, clutching her sons to her breast as twin anchors to reality. She cursed her lack of training that prevented her from sending questions back over the moonrays to Sioned. There was a sharp wrench, utterly unlike the usual gentle leavetaking, and Tobin cried out softly.
“Mama?” Sorin breathed, frightened, and plucked at her sleeve. She looked down with what she hoped was a reassuring smile, then turned to Andry. Dazed and confused by what he had been inadvertently caught up in, when his eyes lifted they were swirling with moonlight.
“It’s all right, darling,” she soothed. “Just the moons, nothing more. Here, let’s get you both tucked up into bed now.”
“But, Mama—”
“Hush, Sorin. It was only the moons.” She busied herself with the comfortingly familiar task of arranging the sheets around them, kissing their foreheads, smiling a good night. Sorin was willing to believe that nothing unusual had happened, and settled down for sleep. But Andry, her second Sunrunner child, was still troubled. But not afraid, Tobin noted with pride, just as Maarken had not been afraid when he realized what gifts he had inherited. She stroked Andry’s cheek and whispered, “Sleep now, my own. It’s all right, I promise.”
He bit his lip, then nodded and curled onto his side. She made herself wait until they were both asleep before hurrying to her rooms to change clothes. She brushed out her hair and left it loose, a breach of etiquette, for married women did not wear their hair unbound in company, but she cared nothing for that. Descending the stairs swiftly, she saw that Chay was just beginning to usher their guests into the private dining chamber. Tobin joined him, smiled, and hid her fretting impatience until the two of them were alone just outside the door. “Make excuses,” she said quickly. “I must speak to you. Now.”
“Tobin, they’re all waiting.” He took a closer look at her face and the muscles of his cheeks tightened. “All right. Stay here.”
She heard him make charming, wry apologies to the Syrene guests and order that dinner begin at once. Then he returned to her, closing the door behind him. “Tell me.”
She did.
“Ianthe!” he spat. “By the devil who sired her—Tobin, are you sure?”
“Sioned is. I don’t know how or why, but Ianthe has Rohan.” She reached suddenly for the solid strength of him, terrified for her brother, for them all. “Chay, she’ll kill him—”
“No. That’s not her way.” His lean body quivered with controlled fury and he drew away, grasping her shoulders. “Go in to dinner. Tell them anything you like about why I’ve gone. Just don’t tell them the truth.” She looked up into his eyes, saw the quicksilver grown storm-cloud gray, his rage feeding warrior’s instincts and turning his face into a fierce mask. “Now I know why the Syrene court came to buy more horses in advance of the Rialla. Roelstra’s troops threatening the Desert—I’ll slaughter him myself!”
“How many other princes will be with him against us?”
“We’ll worry about that later. I have work to do.”
“I’ll make sure dinner is brief, then come help. Hurry, Chay.” She leaned up to kiss him, then settled her royal demeanor firmly around her and went into the dining room to tell lies.
Chapter Twenty-three
On first waking, he thought he had sickened with the Plague again. The grinding pain in his head, the fever, the swelling of eyes and tongue, the taste of dranath—all were the same. But as he struggled out of the murky darkness of illness and drugs, he felt the fire in his right shoulder and smelled the acrid medicine from dressings there. The same stench had permeated the room where his father had died. Rohan faced the memory and the possibility that he,