to work. Anyone who sees us must die—and I won’t let you do the killing, faradhi.”
The look in her eyes frightened Tobin. She had seen it in Chay’s eyes this spring, that dark glitter that meant death. She gripped Sioned’s hand and would not let her pull free. “Ostvel is right. Sioned, we must hurry.”
The fire-gold head nodded once. She said nothing as she drew her fingers from Tobin’s, let the Fire flicker out, and started for the stairs. Tobin traded another worried glance with Ostvel—who had not put up his sword.
Feruche’s reputation as a castle that could not be taken had made its guards careless. The few not partaking of the wine-soaked celebrations were easy to avoid; Tobin created soft breaths of Air that distracted attention by ruffling a tapestry or rattling a window. Sioned paid no attention, confident that the guards Tobin did not distract, Ostvel would silence permanently. But the sword tasted no new blood on the way to Ianthe’s chambers.
Sioned paused at a high window overlooking the courtyard, light from the central bonfire down below blazing across her face. Tobin grabbed Ostvel’s arm as Sioned’s hands lifted slightly.
“Sioned—no!” Tobin exclaimed.
An unnatural light appeared beyond the windows, the gold and crimson of Sunrunner’s Fire. Tobin stared in horror at the out-building directly below, its wooden roof alight. Sparks blew onto the next roof and the next, leaping with terrible hunger. Ordinary fire would not have caught so swiftly, but Sunrunner’s Fire flared and grew. The screams of alarm began, the panic. Sioned smiled slightly.
“Damn you!” Ostvel cried. “The balconies will catch! Sioned, you fool!”
“There has to be Fire,” she said softly, and turned from the conflagration and the screams of drunken panic in the courtyard, heading unerringly for Ianthe’s chambers.
Roelstra’s daughter lay in her dragon-tapestried bed, weak from the birthing, sobbing for help. A cradle rocked silently in a corner, but the woman who tended the child was gone—and with reason, for the flames were clearly visible at the windows now, even so high in the tower. Stairs leading up the inner walls had caught, and a wooden balcony three floors below was now afire. As smoke filtered into the chamber, the baby began to cry.
Ianthe’s pleas for help became screams of rage. Sioned ignored her. She went to the cradle where the infant lay, blond as sunlight. “Sweet Goddess,” she breathed, almost afraid to touch him. One finger, hesitant and shy, across his cheek. “Shh,” she whispered. “I’m here now, little one.”
Ianthe pushed herself upright and shrieked, “Get away from my son!”
“My son,” Sioned answered softly. She lifted the boy and held him to her heart, lips caressing the golden down covering his head. He stopped whimpering and snuggled close. “My son, now and forever.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Ianthe struggled to rise, moaned, fell back onto her pillows. “Take your hands off him! You wouldn’t dare steal him from me!”
“It was you who stole this child from my husband’s body.” Sioned faced the princess, holding the baby closer, tucking the blanket around him. “I’m returning to him what’s his—and mine.”
“I’ll have you burned in your own Fire! Guards!” she screamed in a voice already hoarse from earlier cries. “Guards!”
“Be quiet,” Sioned murmured absently, stroking the child’s plump cheek with one finger.
Tobin came to her side, staring at the boy as if not quite able to comprehend his reality. “Oh, Sioned,” she whispered. “He’s beautiful. . . .”
“And mine.” Sioned held him so Ostvel could see.
“Give him to me,” Ostvel said.
“You bitch!” Ianthe howled. “I’ll kill you myself, with my own hands—”
Sioned backed away as Ostvel reached for the child. “No! He’s mine!”
“Did you think I’d give him back to her?” he snapped, taking the baby. Firmly and quickly he stripped off the velvet blanket. It fell to the carpet in a splash of gold-shot violet. “No son of Rohan’s wears Roelstra’s colors.”
The smoke was thicker now. Ianthe found strength in panic, rising naked from the bed. Her fingers dug into the curtains, features contorted into a mask of fury as she clung to a post for support. “You’ll die for this, all of you!”
Sioned walked slowly to her, pried the clawing fingers from the hangings. “You have something else that belongs to me, Ianthe.” The princess tried to slap her, but Sioned was swifter and stronger. She caught a wrist and twisted it. Ianthe groaned and collapsed onto the bed, cursing as Sioned wrenched the emerald from her finger and returned it to its rightful place on