Rohan caught the nod from Chay, and lifted his fist. The dragon horn sounded. Suddenly it was as if the battle maps had come alive before him. Seventy riders swept down from his right, while on his left foot soldiers marched forward in orderly ranks, framed by fifty archers on either side. The remaining eighty horse, one hundred foot, and one hundred archers fanned out on either side of Rohan, forming the arc of the half-circle he would tighten around Roelstra. He paused while his forces moved into position, watching the gleam of harness and sword and scythe, the bright fletching clumped in shoulder-slung quivers.
“This ends it,” he murmured in a voice only Chay heard, as Chay had been the only one to hear his promise never to kill another dragon. “My sword will rust, and I’ll be glad of it.”
“Mine with it, my prince,” Chay responded quietly.
Rohan glanced at him, surprised at such words from his warrior friend. “Truly?”
A slight, almost wistful smile curved Chay’s lips. “Truly. Lord Eltanin was right, you know, about the walls.”
“But no one recognized us!” Tobin exclaimed again. “And even if some die, who’ll take the word of those who deserted their mistress and forfeited their honor thereby? Especially when their stories are pitted against the word of two princesses!”
Sioned bent her head to the baby’s and tried not to listen to the argument being waged behind her. She concentrated on moving, her exhausted body crying out for rest, water, food.
Ostvel’s voice was harsh, raspy with weariness. “You’d base the boy’s life on a lie? What about when he’s older and people whisper about what happened at Feruche?”
“Who would dare?”
“So no one’s going to tell him at all? Ever?”
“Who’d be the one to tell him? You?” Tobin challenged.
Sioned stopped, swung around. “The child is mine,” she said very clearly. “I waited for his coming, I’m the one who’ll raise him, and I’m the one who will give him his name. Only a mother may Name her child. This baby is mine.” She looked at both of them in turn, then resumed walking.
There were no more arguments.
As they passed through the rock sculptures of the Court of the Storm God, Sioned saw nothing of its stark majesty. There were only weird, frightening shadows cast by the winter sun. The climb out of the canyon was slow work, and when she could go no farther she sank down in the shade, closing her eyes. The infant nuzzled feebly at her breast, but she had no milk to give him. Old Myrdal knew of herbs the helped bring a new mother’s milk and they had both reasoned that these might help Sioned. She had grasped eagerly at the possibility of feeding the child with her own substance, of being the source of life for him. But the birth had come too soon, and she was unprepared. They would have to reach Skybowl soon, or he might die.
“Poor little one,” Tobin murmured, sitting beside Sioned, one finger stroking the baby’s downy golden hair. “If only we hadn’t lost the horses.”
Sioned nodded. “He’ll feed tonight at Skybowl. And then I’ll Name him. I need you to be there with me, Tobin.”
“Shouldn’t you wait? Rohan—”
“Will just have to forgive me one thing more,” she answered quietly. Then she looked up at Ostvel. “Sooner than I’ll forgive you for stealing Ianthe’s death from me.”
He shrugged, his voice cold as he said, “Easier to never forgive me than to never forgive yourself.” He glanced at the sun. “If you’re rested, we should start off again.”
She walked beside Tobin as Ostvel took the lead, and tried not to think. Her mind did not oblige.
She had killed. Intentionally or not, she had used her power and people had died—at the Rialla years ago, at Feruche. But it was not Andrade whose forgiveness she needed, or Ostvel’s, or Rohan’s, or even her own. She gazed down at her sleeping son and pleaded with the Goddess that she would never find condemnation in his eyes.
“Davvi! Behind you!” Rohan wheeled his horse around to defend his brother-by-marriage, and in doing so left his back unguarded. He hacked off a wrist and the spear it carried fell just before it would have pierced Davvi’s spine. A quick-eyed soldier wearing Roelstra’s violet lunged up and sliced through Rohan’s leather tunic, reopening the old wound in his right shoulder. He cursed and twisted around in his saddle, signaling Pashta with his heels. Rear hooves lashed out and