it. After that. . . .” She shrugged. “You’re free to go now, and your princeling with you. Enjoy your life while you may, for it lasts only until midwinter when my son is born.”
Sioned waited until the princess had turned to the door in a sweep of crimson, then said, “Enjoy your hate while you may, Ianthe, if hate is life to you. It ends when Rohan’s son is born.”
The princess’ spine stiffened and for an instant she froze. Sioned smiled to herself. Then Ianthe was gone, the door wide open behind her.
Sioned took her time, gathering her strength. Slowly she put on the riding clothes given her to cover her nakedness, then made her way from the torchlit dark along an empty corridor. There were many stairs, and several times she had to stop and lean against the wall while dizziness shook her. At last she emerged into a chamber washed with feeble dawn, where Rohan waited for her.
The pale light spared nothing of the hollows gouged out around his ribs, the stark bones of his face. They had given him rags to wear, the proud dragon prince—trousers, boots, a cloak he held awkwardly over one arm. The blond hair was dark and lank with sweat, the eyes bruised, and in those eyes was a despair that tore at her soul.
She knew what he must be seeing as he looked at her. The clothes hung from her shoulders, and the light would be equally merciless on her own gray skin, her features still drawn tight against screams she had refused to give. She saw him staring at her and hurt more for his hurt than for any of her own.
“I was with her,” he said abruptly.
“I know. And now she carries your son, as I cannot.”
“I should have killed her.”
“No.” But she could not explain, not yet.
He came forward, placed the cloak around her shoulders, careful not to touch her. “We’re free to go.”
“Rohan—you’re mine,” Sioned told him. “Mine.”
He shook his head, moved away from her to the door.
“She could never take you from me. The only one who could do that is you—and I will never give you up or let you go.”
“I won’t let you claim soiled goods,” he rasped.
“Is that why you won’t touch me?”
He swung around, fresh agony crying out from his eyes. “Sioned—no—”
She waited until her meaning was completely clear to him, calculating the balance of his love for her against his hatred of himself. “I lost track of how many used me,” she said at last, words chosen for their cruelty, words that were a terrible risk. But she knew this man—stricken, stripped of pride, whom she had just hurt again. The shock would either break him or bring him back to her.
She knew him. He held her gently, as if she would shatter in his arms. Sioned rested her head on his shoulder and let the tears fall, cleansing her eyes, washing his skin.
The courtyard outside was empty, but Sioned could feel hundreds of eyes in the shadows. There were two horses tied just inside the gates, a waterskin strapped to each saddle. Ianthe evidently meant them to survive the Desert. As Sioned and Rohan mounted and rode out of Feruche, neither missed and neither commented on the sight of Ianthe, high on the battlements, watching them.
Rohan was as tense as if he expected an arrow in his back at any instant. Sioned knew there would not be. Midwinter, she repeated to herself. Midwinter. She had until then to decide the manner of Ianthe’s death.
“Just a skirmish,” Prince Jastri begged. “The men are restless. They know we have the superior force and want to prove it! Just one small skirmish—”
Roelstra’s lips twisted and he pushed his breakfast away. There was no sense continuing the meal with Jastri nagging at him and destroying his appetite.
“One small skirmish,” he mused. “Something Lord Chaynal will know very well how to turn into a major battle. Haven’t you listened to anything that’s said of him? He knows war, Jastri. He had a most competent teacher in Zehava, and plenty of experience with the Merida. There will be no skirmish. Not yet. Now, be a good boy and leave me to finish my breakfast in peace, won’t you?”
Jastri, usually flushed with the delight of commanding his own troops in their drills, now flushed with rage. A handsome boy of sixteen winters, he had all the high spirits and impatience of youth released from the onerous supervision