Dragon Prince - By Melanie Rawn Page 0,197

in store for her today. Goddess knew, the last five days had been bad enough. In addition to Pandsala, she had had to endure Chiana’s presence on the road from Goddess Keep, for the girl had somehow managed to secure a horse and ride out with them. Discovery had come too late. Taking seriously Chiana’s whispered threat to expose the whole scheme to Lord Lyell’s men, Andrade had gritted her teeth and rebuked herself silently for having taken the brat in to begin with. But it had been too late for self-recrimination, as well.

Urival, knowing they would need help crossing the rivers between Goddess Keep and Syr, had delayed the application of sleeping herbs and Sunrunner magic on the detachment sent along to escort Pandsala to her father. Andrade had been all for trussing them up the first night out. But this afternoon on a rest stop she had done the necessary, and now they were free. Pandsala couldn’t have been happier, and Chiana bounced along on a horse too large for her, singing. Neither sight was calculated to improve Andrade’s temper.

The news on the sunlight had been terrible. The Merida assaulted the walls of Tiglath with infuriating regularity. Their arrows found a few targets, they lost a few men, and they retreated until the next skirmish. Andrade understood the tactic: constant harassment to wear down the city’s spirit. Open battle exhilarated, but a slow, steady siege exhausted morale. Young Walvis had plans to raid Merida supply lines, both to gain provisions for the city and to give his troops the reassurance of action. But a pitched battle on the plain was denied him.

Tobin and the younger twins had arrived safely at Stronghold, but Andrade’s view of the castle had shown it to be nearly deserted. A glimpse of the area around Tiglath showed a force had broken off from the main Merida army to head south. And at Feruche life went on as if all was usual and normal, as if the garrison below the keep was still full of Rohan’s soldiers. Of Rohan and Sioned, there was no news and no sign.

Andrade dried her face and hands on a relatively clean section of her skirt and started back. Urival’s sudden shout of alarm came just as she topped the rise. He stood before the cold fire, rumpled and furious, holding Pandsala’s empty cloak.

“Gone!” he bellowed. “Damn that bitch—she’s gone!”

Chiana sat with her feet tucked under her, unimpressed by Urival’s rage. Andrade saw the artful arrangement of saddles that had simulated two sleeping forms where there had been only one, endured Chiana’s smug smile for five long breaths, then hauled the girl to her feet and shook her.

“You knew!”

“Yes, my Lady,” Chiana affirmed with a nod. “My sister has gone to our father, of course,” she went on as if Andrade was too old and addled in her wits to grasp the obvious. “She ought to be with him by now. And she took all the horses with her.”

Andrade let her go, turning away, not wanting Urival to see the murder she knew was in her eyes. Pandsala’s weeping, hand-wringing performance to Lyell’s captain had renewed suspicions, but she had behaved herself perfectly on the journey when she could at any time have denounced the two Sunrunners. But now this—with Chiana as gleeful accomplice. Andrade had saved their lives and they would ruin her, for Pandsala wore faradhi rings now and her talents would be put to the service of the High Prince.

Slowly, she faced Chiana again. She saw her own hand draw back. But she did not strike. Chiana let out a soft whimper of fear.

“You are old enough to understand events—and old enough to betray,” Andrade told her in a deathly quiet voice. “I should have expected this from someone whose name means ‘treason.’ ”

Chiana stood her ground unflinching, defiance blazing in her eyes. “My father—” she began proudly.

“Is a walking dead man.” Andrade turned to Urival. “Thus far for tradition’s sake I have hesitated. But today the sunlight will tremble. The faradh’im choose the Desert, her prince, and her armies.”

“Please consider, my Lady,” he replied in formal tones that spoke his misgivings more clearly than if he had cried out a hundred reasons against her decision.

“I am within my rights. Roelstra has shut the faradh’im away from all light. For this alone he deserves what we’ll do to him.”

“His death?” Urival asked.

“We are not murderers.”

“Nor executioners?” he pressed.

“No,” Andrade said, and for the first time in

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