of her voice, deep and redolent of Fire and shadows. “What Andrade wanted from me, Ianthe will give her. But they’ll both lose, Rohan. This prince will be yours and mine. What do I care what you did with her or to her? You tell me there was rape. Didn’t she and Andrade do the same to us? Andrade used me, Ianthe used you. But they will not use our son. Believe that, Rohan.”
Yes, he believed. He saw Ianthe’s death in Sioned’s eyes, and believed. Sioned would wait out the child as if the pregnancy was her own, while Rohan destroyed the High Prince like any other barbarian.
His child. Sioned’s child. Goddess help the boy, what sort of world would he be born into? One in which his father’s wife had killed his mother, and his father had killed his grandfather. Goddess help him.
The waiting ended eight days later for Rohan. Maarken, caught very suddenly on the sunlight, recovered from Sioned’s weaving and hurried to his father’s tent, brushing past the Desert standard on its golden staff, interrupting a conference between prince and athri.
“Jastri’s on the move south! Sixty horse, seventy archers, and two hundred foot! He’s broken with the High Prince and will attack tomorrow.”
Rohan grabbed for a map. “Now we find out how good you are at strategy, Chay. All captains here at once, Maarken. Get Tilal to help you, then make it known among the troops that tomorrow we fight at last.”
Prince Jastri’s three hundred and thirty arrived from the south, unhindered by the horse Chay directed there. These merely shadowed the host, unseen. When Jastri turned east for the attack on what his scouts had reported as Rohan’s weakest position, he found three hundred facing him with the prince himself at their head.
This time there was no Faolain River to wash away the blood. It soaked into the gritty sand for hours, then was left behind as Rohan’s forces pushed Jastri’s back measure after measure toward the Faolain. But there was no escape across the river, for between Jastri and the bridges were another hundred Desert soldiers, led by Lord Davvi.
The young prince fled south whence he had come. Rohan, riding with Tilal and Davvi at his side, topped a small rise in time to see Chay’s red-and-white standard flash into view from the trees. Jastri was caught in the middle, the reserve horse thundering at him from the south, Rohan and Davvi’s troops marching inexorably at him from the north and west.
Rohan sent a man forward with his battle flag to signal Jastri an offer of his life if he surrendered at once. But Sioned and her informant had been correct; the young man was hot-tempered and very proud. He led his remnant of an army against Rohan, bellowing out his fury.
Feeling Davvi’s gaze on him, he knew his brother-by-marriage was wondering if mercy was a part of his character. He hesitated, knowing that he could order Jastri sectioned off from his troops and spared. But as he glanced at the older man he saw Sioned’s green eyes, remembered her ravaged face. Rohan lifted his sword.
Jastri’s force broke utterly. Some soldiers laid down their arms; others fought to preserve their own lives without thought of winning a larger battle already lost. Rohan had to admire the courage of these latter people, as he admired Jastri’s, even though such bravery in these circumstances was folly. He tried to fight through to the young prince, deciding that he would offer honorable treatment as befitted princes. But he was too busy defending himself and Tilal from ambitious stripling lords who wanted his head. He never saw who killed Prince Jastri.
The banks of the Faolain had long since been secured by Davvi’s contingent, so when the battle cooled at last Rohan led the way back there, Pashta snorting at the stench of death as he picked his way delicately around the corpses. Rohan’s gaze fastened on the empty bridges. Roelstra was too smart to have committed more than a handful of his own troops; he had probably ordered them back across the Faolain this morning. Neither had he risked his own precious person. Pity. Rohan would have liked to end it all here.
Chay rode up with Jastri’s ripped and bloodied turquoise standard furled across his saddle. Rohan held out his hand and Chay dropped into his palm two rings, one gold and one silver, both set with deep garnets, the gem of Syrene princes.
“I had them take him from