had not been keeping Tobin here, but it would certainly take her to Stronghold.
“So. Your father has managed to get his own way. As usual.”
Her capitulation was enough; Chay had learned long since not to gloat about his rare victories over her. It was the surest way to ignite her considerable temper and her incredible stubbornness. So he changed the subject. “I’d like you to talk with Andry before tomorrow, Maarken. Twice now he’s been caught in a faradhi weaving and he doesn’t understand it. You’ve learned enough from Meath and Eolie to explain it to him.”
“It is kind of scary the first few times,” Maarken said with all the wisdom of one earned but unworn Sunrunner’s ring. Chay reflected that from now on he would have to treat his son not as a little boy, but as a man, and had a moment of poignant regret for the child Maarken had been. He could have asked for no better companion than the youth he saw before him now—scarcely eleven winters old yet behaving exactly as a princess’ son ought. Still. . . .
“I’ll get some clothes on,” Tobin said, “and we’ll go find the boys.” She disappeared behind a tall screen in a corner of the room.
Maarken regarded his father thoughtfully. “Shall I really be your squire?”
“I assume Lleyn and his son Chadric have trained you adequately.”
The boy nodded. “But does it mean I can go to war at your side? Not just sit in your tent?”
Chay heard Tobin make a soft sound. Goddess help me, he thought. I don’t want my boys to grow up and go to battle so young. Rohan is right—and this must be the last war. If only Sioned can free him so he can fight it, and never fight another—
“Father?”
“Yes, Maarken. I doubt you’ll do much sitting around in my tent.”
Night again, hot and close. The sixth night since Ianthe. Rohan turned away from the dinner laid out for him. Food, wine, even water were suspect. He trusted neither his tongue nor his nose, for everything tasted and smelled of dranath to him. He was over the worst of it, having eaten in the last few days only those things he considered least dangerous—unsliced fruit from which he peeled the skin, dragontail cactus root washed clean of its sauces, a few other things. His stomach growled at times with emptiness, but he had no other way of ensuring that he ingested no more of the drug. He found it ironic that the dranath that had saved his dragons was so great a danger to him.
Yet he could not attribute his actions solely to the confusion of the drug and the fever from his wound. His glance went to the corner where he had piled the obscene bed-hangings and the tapestry. He had yanked them down after Ianthe had left him, shamed and furious at the memories they evoked, wishing he was a faradhi so he could set them afire. But he was not allowed so much as a single candle, let alone the means to light one. The weavings were useless to him in any escape attempt, for his chamber overlooked the courtyard from seven floors up. He intended to die only if he could take Ianthe with him.
She had been careful and clever. There was nothing sharp in the room, not even knife or fork to use in eating. Neither was there anything heavy enough to fell her or thin enough to twist into an effective garotte. All he had were his hands—his guilty, betraying hands that should have throttled the life from her six nights ago. He should have killed her then.
He wondered when she would come to him again, or if. He had seen no one but the brawny guard who brought his food, a man who made two of Rohan. He occupied himself in keeping track of the movements outside his windows, the timing of meals, changes of the guard, numbers of troops and servants. He had worked on the lock for two days to no avail. His guard had taken away the heavy bronze curtain rods; there was no furniture but the bed to break into a weapon; nothing in the entire chamber he could use. Escape was not one of his options.
Surely someone should have come for him by now. An attempt to parley, an attack on the castle, anything. He despised himself for looking to others for help, but there was no other hope. He began