information burned his soul. He understood now, and the fury sent tremors through his very bones. Only Sioned, only his Sunrunner princess—who would not have made this journey in order to die with him. He knew her too well. Hope stirred for the first time, and the old confidence welled up, sweet water to a man half-dead of thirst. He and she together could do anything.
But there was Ianthe. Rohan stared down at Sioned from the shadows, saw her weary face uplifted, eyes seeking but not finding him.
“Ianthe!” she called out, and the princess turned from the castle steps. “I have come for my lord and husband—but I’ve also come for you.” And all at once a great gout of Sunrunner’s Fire sprang up in front of her, a twisting column of flame half the height of Feruche itself. And in the fire there appeared a dragon, gleaming crimson and gold.
No one screamed; throats contracted in terror as the faradhi worked her arcane magic, her long fingers naked of rings. But whatever else Ianthe was, she was no coward. She faced down the towering Fire and cried out, “Stop—or I’ll have him killed now, tonight, with his own sword!”
The flames wavered, died. Ianthe laughed. “Take her to an inner room where no sunlight or moonlight reaches! Don’t fear, Sunrunner—I’ll give him back to you soon!”
Rohan closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the rough wall. Soon—when she was certain she carried his child, and could flaunt the fact to Sioned. Son or not, he would kill her. And the child, too.
Barbarian.
Chapter Twenty-five
Andrade knew it had to be a dream. Roelstra and Ianthe and Pandsala, dressed in dark violet cloaks, held her hands to a Fire of her own conjuring. When they pulled her away from the flames, her arms ended in blackened stumps at the wrists. The High Prince and Ianthe then reached into the Fire and salvaged the hands. Pandsala gathered up rings and bracelets, thin chains shivering. With ritual solemnity they circled around the blaze, gave the hands to a shadowy figure beyond the light. And within the depths of a voluminous cloak Andrade saw her own wrists and palms and fingers merge into those of someone unknown. Pandsala slid the jeweled rings onto the fingers, clasped the bracelets around the wrists, attached the delicate chains. A gesture of those hands, and the Fire rose powerfully, flung itself around Ianthe, who vanished into nothingness. The white-gold flames then formed a gleaming sword that pierced Roelstra’s flesh; he, too, was taken by Fire, gone forever. But Pandsala remained, head bowed in submission to the unknown who wore Andrade’s faradhi rings, had mastered all the power they symbolized—and was unafraid to use that power to kill.
There the dream ended, and she woke to the sounds of the forest shifting around her. Sitting up, she gulped in the clean morning air, knowing it was foolish to inspect her hands—and inspecting them anyway. She believed in prophetic dreams only when it suited her. This one was best forgotten as quickly as she could.
She attempted to distract herself with the details of her surroundings. Urival slept uneasily nearby, wrapped in his cloak on the hard ground. Two other forms curled on the other side of the dead fire. Trees screened the first sunlight, hazy through the blue-green mists rising from the river. Andrade rubbed her back that ached from having to sit her horse like a sack of grain in aid of her disguise as Pandsala’s servant. Five days of it had left her sore in self-image as well as in body, and both gave her the source of her dream. Her hands were stiff, the joints laced with hot needles; she still smarted with the indignity of having to pocket her rings and bracelets until Lord Lyell’s men were taken care of; fury seethed within at Roelstra, Ianthe, and especially Pandsala for putting her in this humiliating position. But that shadowy figure, unidentifiable even as male or female, still troubled her.
There were simple cures for morning aches and dream phantoms. Andrade pushed herself to her feet, wincing as her bones protested the morning damp and chill, and walked down to the river. Exercise gradually warmed her muscles as she sought convenient shallows for washing, and the cold water cleared her head. She shook droplets from her face and hands, rebraided her hair, and felt more equal to dealing with an intransigent world.
Or at least to learning what new inconveniences it had