by Melanie Rawn
“I appreciate your position,” Rohan said, and Lady Eneida’s fragment of a smile told him she appreciated his geographical pun; Firon was right next to ever-hungry Cunaxa. “Such an event would not please us much either. Still, there is much to be said for putting, say, Prince Lleyn’s younger grandson forth as the heir. Firon would retain its independence.”
Tobin shifted slightly in her chair and slanted a look of disgust at her brother. Maarken, standing beside her, put an unobtrusive hand on her shoulder. He understood his mother’s acquisitive instincts as fully as Rohan did.
“Dorval is far away,” Lady Eneida said bluntly. “Ten days’ sail in good weather, should we require assistance against the Cunaxans. But we also share a border with Princemarch.”
“A difficult one,” Sioned pointed out. “Solid mountains with only one decent pass through them.”
“There is also the proximity of the Desert to Cunaxa,” Lady Eneida said expressionlessly, her eyes sharp as splinters of dark glass.
Rohan let the ensuing silence draw out, knowing what she implied. A treaty establishing Lleyn’s grandson Laric in Firon would intimidate the Cunaxans much less than if Rohan actually owned the place. An attack on Firon would become a direct threat to him, unfiltered through any agreement of defense with an independent princedom. Kierst was closer to Firon, but only the Desert could attack across the shared border with Cunaxa in response to a march on Firon. Prince Miyon would never be so foolish as to invade in the west when he could be certain of a counterattack from the south that would necessarily split his forces and their effectiveness in half.
Lady Eneida finally broke the quiet by saying. “The stronger claim comes from the Desert. Prince Pol is a full generation closer to Firon through you, my lord. Combine this with her grace’s Kierstian blood. . . .” She finished with a shrug that indicated the inevitability of Firon’s end as an independent princedom.
“Your council is agreed or you would not be here, I take it,” Tobin said.
“Yes, your grace—agreed reluctantly. Again, no insult implied. It is not that we worry about the suitability of our choice.”
“Only that you regret that it had to be made at all,” Rohan supplied. “I, too, regret the necessity, my lady.”
“May I consider then that the suggestion of the council is acceptable to the High Prince?”
“Our answer cannot be forthcoming until the Rialla, when we have consulted with the other princes as law demands.”
Tobin drew in a swift breath and Maarken’s fingers tightened on her shoulder in silent warning. Lady Eneida’s backbone became a shaft of ice.
“Please believe me,” Rohan said, “when I tell you that all will be done to ensure the safety and integrity of Fironese lands. But the law is the law and must be observed. I can put forth no claim and I certainly cannot agree to anything until all the facts have been presented at Waes.”
“My lord, perhaps I have understated the danger from Cunaxa. It will be a long spring and summer before the Rialla.”
“Nevertheless I will abide by laws I myself wrote,” he said quietly. “Your faradhi at Balarat is only a ray of light away from Princess Sioned. Should you require assistance, it will be forthcoming—according to the law.”
And with that she had to be content. She took her leave with frigid dignity and closed the door behind her with a sound like cracking ice.
Sioned spoke before Tobin could let loose her outrage. “Maarken, will you go find your father, please?”
A flicker of disappointment went over his face at being denied the witnessing of one of his mother’s famous tempers, but he bowed and obeyed. Rohan nodded his gratitude to his wife and turned to Pol.
“You’ve had the benefit of lectures from Lleyn and Chadric. What do you think about this?”
The boy recovered quickly from his surprise at being consulted. “We have to take Firon. We supply their glass ingots, and I can’t believe the Cunaxans would let that trade continue even if it cost them much of their revenues. Especially not with the Merida at their court speaking against us. And they’re right across the border from Firon, with two good mountain passes to use.”
“Three,” Tobin snapped, black eyes blazing. “Rohan, what ails you? They’re handing you a princedom wrapped in silk ribbons! And you’re going to wait until the end of summer to take it?”
“Yes. Can you tell me why, Pol?”
“Because it’s the law, just as you said.” The boy hesitated, then shrugged. “Besides, the princes can’t do anything other than agree, can they? Our blood claim is the best, and you’re the High Prince, after all.”
“Then why doesn’t he act like it?” Tobin demanded. “It’s very pretty and noble of you to observe the forms, Rohan, but in the meantime the Cunaxans might cross the border and then we’d have to fight for what the Fironese want to give us without a single sword unsheathed!”
Rohan paid no attention to her, instead gazing thoughtfully at his son. “Because I’m the High Prince,” he echoed. “Does that make my wishes law?”
“No, but—”
He was interrupted by the entrance of Chay and Maarken. Tobin sprang to her feet and ordered her husband to talk some sense into her brother. Chay’s brows arched at her vehemence, but he said nothing until he had turned Lady Eneida’s chair, sat with both arms folded across its back, and spraddled his long, booted legs.
“I’m told the Fironese want to give you a present,” he remarked mildly. Then he grinned, a wicked gleam in his gray eyes. “What a perfect summer this is for military maneuvers up around Tuath Castle. And how fortunate that it’s only fifty measures from the Cunaxan border.”
Tobin’s breath hissed through her teeth and she glared at her lord. Pol’s eyes went wide with astonishment; Sioned contemplated her hands to hide her amusement. But Rohan was openly grinning at his sister.
“You should know better than to doubt my sanity, Tobin,” he admonished. “Miyon and his council will be so nervous watching us across the border that they won’t have time or nerve to think about Firon.”
“So you say,” she retorted. “But why not agree to the Fironese proposal now? It would save a lot of time. Pol’s right—they can’t do otherwise than agree with the High Prince.”
“And if I don’t conform to the law, who else will?” he countered. “Do you understand, Pol?”
The boy looked at Maarken, who smiled encouragement, and then said, “It’s kind of like being a Sunrunner, isn’t it? You’re the High Prince and you have a greater responsibility to the law than anyone else, even when the law is awkward. And being a faradhi is the same. More duties and obligations come with more power, don’t they?”
“Indeed they do.” He could barely keep the glow of his pride from outshining the sunlight, and reminded himself to thank Lleyn and Chadric and Audrite. “Tobin, you’ve the best head for maps. Would you work on a proposal whereby Firon is divided between Princemarch and Fessenden?”
“Fessenden!”
Pol’s jaw dropped; Sioned winked at him. Chay rested his forehead to his folded arms and shook with silent laughter. After a moment he raised his head and murmured, “Tobin, Tobin, haven’t you learned yet not to outguess him?”
Her shock had given way to disgust. “Oh, so we don’t want to appear the greedy prince, do we? Just so long as all the best crys tallers come under Princemarch’s jurisdiction!”
“It will leave Fessenden with a nice chunk of land and a nice degree of gratitude for our generous expansion of their territory. Maarken, perhaps you can contact Eolie at Graypearl and ask if Lleyn knows of any strong ties or stronger aversions between people along the borderlands. I want to make this as easy and painless for everyone as possible.”
Maarken grinned his appreciation of the plan. “It will be a pleasure, my lord. Lleyn is a font of information on everybody’s holdings after the border arguments three Riall’im ago. He knows who’s been fighting over what down to the last blade of grass—even though it bores him
silly.”
“I’m sure you’ll all find this little bit of geographical rearrangement interesting,” Rohan said. “Be sure to mention to him that there will be compensation for removing his grandsons from the consideration of other princes for the Fironese throne—if he’s so inclined.”
“I think he will be. The elder son, Ludhil, swears he’ll never set foot off Dorval except to attend the Rialla, so I doubt very much he’d want Firon. And Laric is more scholar than prince.”
Rohan thought for a moment. “I’ll have a little talk with Davvi at Waes about Tilal. Now, he’d make an excellent prince.”
“It’s what we trained him to be,” Sioned agreed. “But what about Volog’s younger boy? His claim is just as good.”
“I’ll sit down with him, too. The Goddess must be smiling on me, that I can speak to them as kinsmen as well as princes.”
Tobin gave a delicate snort. “Oh, yes, keep it all in the family, shall we? You remember, of course, that you arranged it so Volog’s grandson will rule both Kierst and Isel one day. Are you going to add a third princedom to his list?”
“I would hardly say I arranged it, Tobin! Could I have foreseen that Saumer’s only son would die without an heir?”
“No, but things have a way of working out to your advantage,” she retorted. “Very well, I’ll rearrange your map for you. But I still say you should take it all, and right now.”
“You’re just angry that you didn’t think of the Fessenden angle first,” Chay said. “Rohan, I assume you want Walvis to lead the maneuvers at Tuath?”
“Unless Maarken would like to.” He looked a question at the young man, who lost his smile. “If you don’t—”
“I will if you ask, my lord.”
“But I’m sure Andrade will want to see him at the Rialla,” Sioned insisted. “Send Walvis. They know him well in the north after what he did at Tiglath. I’m positive Maarken could impress the Cunaxans and our own people, but the idea is to avoid battle, not to demonstrate how able Maarken is by provoking one.”
It was all perfectly logical—but Rohan knew that her stated reasons for wanting Maarken in Waes and Walvis at Tuath were different from her real reasons. The relief in Maarken’s eyes confirmed that the Rialla was his wish as well. Rohan eyed his wife suspiciously, then nodded agreement. He’d get the truth out of her later.
Pol gave a dismal sigh. “I guess that means—”
“Chay,” Sioned interrupted smoothly, “why don’t you and Maarken talk to Walvis this afternoon?”
Tobin was still nursing her irritation with her brother, but Chay had picked up on the undercurrents. He said nothing to the point, however, merely nodded and ushered his wife and son from the room—but not before giving Sioned a long, laughing glance that she returned with perfect composure. Rohan saw him grin and shake his head.
When the three of them were alone, Sioned turned a sly look on Pol. “Yes, it does mean that Sionell and Jahnavi will be coming with us to Skybowl. You’ll live.”
Rohan chuckled as the boy’s cheeks reddened. “I give it another five winters or so, Pol, and then you won’t have to worry about her. There’ll be plenty of young men more than willing to take her attention away from you.”
Pol stared, utterly amazed that Sionell might possibly attract young men to her plump, pestilential little person, or that he might care if she did. Rohan, knowing he really shouldn’t laugh, laughed anyway.
“Well, anyway,” Pol said, “it’s kind of appropriate that my claim to Firon comes from both of you, just like my Sunrunner gifts. I’m glad it’s that way—reinforced. I don’t think I’d feel quite right about it otherwise.”
Sioned nodded easily, but her eyes had gone blank. Rohan knew why. There was no claim to Firon through her, nor were the talents of her giving. She was much too sensitive. “Does the prospect worry you, son?”
“No—not much, anyway,” he amended honestly. “It’s just that now I’ll have to worry about yet another princedom.” He gave a whimsical smile. “Just make sure this is the last I’ll have to add to the list, Father. I don’t think there’s room enough in my head to keep any more princedoms straight!”
“As High Prince you’ll have to worry about all of them.”
“Then I’m going to keep everybody very busy answering about a million questions!”
“We’ll do our best to answer. And that reminds me, how is Chadric these days? I haven’t really had time to talk to you abut your training and your life at Graypearl.”
“But shouldn’t we start planning things?”
Rohan laughed. “Consider it the first lesson in being High Prince. I’ve sent everyone off to do work they know very well how to do without me. Chay and Maarken and Walvis will present me with excellent plans for Tuath, Tobin will bury herself in books and maps for the next ten or twelve days, and when they’re ready, my experts will tell me what they’ve come up with. But until then my time is my own. Never do yourself what someone else can do for you better and faster, Pol. Now, tell me what you think of Chadric. He was a squire here, you know—he arrived the year I was born and left when I was only six, so I don’t really remember him all that well.”
Pol launched into a description of Chadric’s many virtues, and during his recital Sioned recovered her poise—as Rohan had intended. They went on talking for a time, and then he suggested that it might be polite for Pol to go compliment Sionell on her new pony. Pol grimaced, then sighed.
“I guess she can’t help it,” he observed philosophically. “She’s only a little girl, after all.”
Neither Rohan nor Sioned missed the authority lent by a whole three years’ advantage in age, but neither gave in to further amusement. Pol left them, and Rohan took his wife’s hand in his own.
“It hurts me to see you upset, love.”
“I just wasn’t expecting him to say what he did, that’s all.” She shrugged. “I hate to have him grow up believing a lie—I know, I know, it’s a necessary lie until he’s old enough to understand what really happened, and why we never told him. But it’s lucky that the Fironese claim doesn’t come only through me. In honor, we would’ve had to refuse.”
“And think up a very good reason why. But not much will change in Firon, you know. Pimantal of Fessenden isn’t likely to close his fist tight around his new possessions—especially after I’ve had a little talk with him.”
“The same tactic you use with Princemarch. It’s been fourteen winters since Pandsala became regent, and the people have learned where their advantage lies. By the time Pol is old enough to rule there, they’ll find our methods completely natural.”
“I wonder if the other princes will.” He rose and went to the windows, looking down at the courtyard. “Firon is too good an opportunity to pass up—and the fact that they came to me instead of the other way around soothes my conscience a bit. But I’ll have to be careful, especially with this Roelstra’s son business to deal with, now of all times.” He snorted with sudden laughter. “Can you believe it—old Ajit had six wives and was thinking of taking a seventh, and he still couldn’t get sons any more than Roelstra could!”
“Sometimes it depends on the woman, you know,” she murmured, and when he turned with a stricken look on his face, smiled at him. “Oh, stop it. I’m not sensitive about that anymore, Rohan. I did give you a son, after all. And besides, Ajit did have an heir who died many years ago.”
“That’s right, I’d forgotten.” He heard shouts and laughter outside in the courtyard, and beckoned Sioned over to the windows. “Come look at this!”
She joined him and together they watched as Walvis, playing dragon for his son and daughter, fluttered an immense green cloak like wings as they tried to ride him down on their ponies. Shrieking with laughter, the children were barely able to stay in their saddles. The outraged ponies were forced to trot up and down, up and down, while wooden swords were waved at the dragon. Pol stood nearby, his face eloquent: he longed to join in the fun, but his sense of dignity
as Rohan’s heir and Lleyn’s squire forbade it. Sionell solved his problem for him by kicking her pony over to where he stood and tossing him her sword. Pol swept her a low bow, then sallied forth to oblige her by slaying the dragon.
“Oh, she’s marvelous!” Rohan laughed. “Just what he needs!”
“Well, we’ll have wait until he’s older to see if he inherited his father’s taste for redheads,” she teased.
“It’d be nice if it happened. But he can choose his wife from scores of girls.”
“They way you did? I can still see you that year in Waes, hip-deep in princesses!”
“And drowning in one pair of green eyes,” he responded gallantly, kissing her.
“Very romantic,” she approved. “Teach Pol some of that, and they won’t let him alone.”
“I don’t recall that it was a very agreeable experience, personally. And speaking of Waes, what was all that about Maarken?”
“I’m not telling. You can torture me, starve me, pull out my fingernails, throw me in the dungeon, or even tickle me—and I won’t say a word.”
“I don’t have a dungeon. And I’m all tickled out for today, thanks. Torture is messy, my own faithful guard would use me for target practice if I tried to starve you, and as for fingernails. . . .” He picked up one of her hands and nibbled her fingertips. “It’s an idea,” he admitted. “At least I wouldn’t get scratched in bed. You can be so emphatic, Sioned.”
Sionell was congratulating Pol on his conquest and Walvis had disappeared into the keep, presumably to consult with Chay and Maarken. Rohan saw Jahnavi, eight years old and already an accomplished horseman, execute a series of showy maneuvers around the horse trough. But his main attention was focused on Pol, who shrugged away Sionell’s attentions and went off to the gardens. The little girl stamped her foot and ran after him.
“You know,” Rohan mused, “I think I’d like to build him a castle.”
“You already have several.”
“Well, not a castle, really, but a palace. Something along the lines of what Lleyn has at Graypearl. Not a keep ready for war, but a peaceful place, with lots of gardens and fountains and all those things.”