by Melanie Rawn
“I have messages for your grace from High Princess Sioned,” she told him while escorting him, Rohan, and Maarken upstairs to their chambers.
“You do?” Pol asked eagerly, only realizing at that moment how much he missed his mother. Then, because he didn’t want to show it, he added, “Have the dragons hatched yet?”
“Not for another ten days or so,” she replied, smiling a little. “Probably at about the time we leave for Waes.”
“I’m sorry we’ll be taking the long way this year, my lady,” Maarken apologized with a smile both rueful and charming. “Neither Pol nor I have your enviable ability to cross water without disgracing ourselves.”
“It’s of no consequence, Lord Maarken. I never much liked the sail down the Faolain anyway.” She turned to Rohan. “The High Princess is quite well, my lord, and begs that you will be on time to the Rialla. She has much information to share with you about the dragons.”
“She and Lady Feylin have discussed nothing else all summer,” he said, smiling. “That was a beautiful tapestry on the landing, Pandsala. Cunaxan?”
“Gribain, my lord, and new. I’ve been encouraging trade with them, as you suggested some years ago. They’ve improved since their first efforts.”
“Mmm. I think we saw a few at Rezeld Manor—clumsy, threadbare things that wouldn’t keep out a sneeze, let alone the winter winds they must get up in the mountains.” He glanced at Pol, his expression perfectly innocent, and the boy had a difficult time controlling his own. “I was impressed with Lord Morlen, however, and his inventory of livestock. You’ll have to fill me in about his quarry, too, while we’re here.”
“I’m pleased he’s done better in the last few years, my lord. He’s forever crying poverty.” She gestured to a servant who opened a large door of carved pine inlaid with shining black stone. “Lord Maarken, this is your suite. I hope it will be satisfactory.”
Maarken was self-possessed enough not to gape at the luxuries within. He merely nodded. “Thank you, my lady. I’m sure it’s entirely adequate to my needs. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll wash off the dirt of the road and attend you later.”
Pol did not have sufficient control of his eyes and jaw not to react when Pandsala herself opened the door of the suite he would share with his father. The first room was a gigantic reception chamber, bearing signs of recent redecoration, though not in the manner of Rezeld: here there were new hangings, fresh paint, cushions that had never been sat on, and the tart scent of citrus polish. Blue, violet, and gold were the dominant colors, sumptuous and slightly overwhelming.
The bedchambers were done in similar fashion. Smiling, Rohan watched Pol’s face, and when Pandsala had left them he said, “Well? What do you think?”
“It’s—it’s—”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” He sank into a chair, relishing its comfort after so many days in the saddle.
“Father—she makes me a little nervous.”
“If she behaved a little stiffly, it’s because she’s anxious for everything to be perfect. Actually, you probably make her nervous, too.”
“Me?”
“Mm-hmm. I may have hired her on, but her real master is you—and she knows it.”
“But I don’t have any say in what goes on here!”
“Not yet.”
Pol digested this in silence, then jumped on the bed, landing with a bounce and a grin. “At least I have my own room and don’t have to listen to you snore!”
“I do not snore, you insolent—”
“Do so.”
“Do not!” Rohan tugged a pillow from behind his back and threw it. Pol responded with an overstuffed bedcushion. Rohan caught it and tossed it back at him. “Not again, or we’ll have feathers all over!”
“Dignity, dignity,” Pol said mournfully, shaking his head. “I have to behave myself, don’t I?” He fell onto his stomach, arms wrapped around the pillow. “Well, when I do come to live here, this stuff is going to go. I don’t care if princes have to live in state—I’d be afraid to take a bath in case I got the tub dirty! Did you see the size of that thing? You and Mother don’t live this way. Why did Pandsala do all this?”
“The whole place is the same, you know. And think for a moment about why she’d want to make this the most splendid suite in all Castle Crag. Don’t mistake her, Pol. She’s not showing off what she can do with money. Everything she does is for us. When she committed to us against her own father, she risked everything—including her life. There were plenty of people, Tobin and Andrade included, who told me I was out of my mind to make her regent here. She knows that, too.” He sighed quietly. “Her commitment is all she has. With her royal blood, she could never have been a traditional kind of Sunrunner, attached to a court somewhere. Can you honestly see a daughter of High Prince Roelstra as a court faradhi? And since Andrade never liked her much, returning to Goddess Keep was out of the question.”
“Mother wouldn’t have her at Stronghold, either,” Pol observed.
“Uneasiness around Pandsala isn’t an uncommon reaction,” he mused. “I can’t say that I’m all that fond of her, but I appreciate her and especially the work she’s done for us.” He paused a moment. “It gave her a life, Pol. She was trained for nothing in her youth except to be a princess, and then after her father’s death—” He shrugged.
“I heard Mother say once that ruling here is her revenge on her father.”
“Perhaps. But she also genuinely cares about you and about Princemarch. We’ve seen what the results have been.”
“Except that she never figured out about Lord Morlen!” Pol grinned, then sobered. “But I can’t help feeling funny around her.”
“As I said, she probably feels funny around you, too. Stop thinking so much!” he chided affectionately. “If I worried as much as you do, I’d be bald as a dragon’s egg. We’re supposed to be having a good time, you know.”
“I was—until we had to start getting dressed for dinner. Any chance that there won’t be a banquet tonight?”
“You can dream,” his father replied.
But the banquet was canceled only a short time before it was due to begin. Rohan was still draped in a bath towel when Maarken came to tell him the information Pandsala had just received on the last of the evening sunlight.
“Inoat of Ossetia and his son Jos went sailing today on Lake Kadar. They were due back well before sunset. But their boat washed up onshore, empty. Rohan—the bodies were found a little while ago. They’re both dead.”
He sat down on the ornate bed. “Another death—two deaths. Sweet Goddess. . . . Jos is a few winters younger than Pol.” He picked at the fringed hangings. “Chale must be devastated. He adored them both.”
Maarken nodded. “His only son and only grandson. I met Inoat once or twice—he visited at Goddess Keep while I was there. I liked him, Rohan. He would’ve made a fine prince.” He paused. “I’ve told Pandsala to cancel everything at once. I hope that wasn’t presumptuous.”
“No, not at all. Thank you for thinking of it. We’ll observe the ritual for them tonight. . . .” He trailed off and raked a hand back through his wet hair. “You know what all this means, don’t you? It may sound cold to be thinking politics right now, but—”
“You’re High Prince. You have to think politics.”
He smiled slightly. “You’re very like your father—good for my conscience in all ways. He’s soothing when I need it, and kicks me when it’s necessary. Promise you’ll always do the same for Pol.”
Maarken returned the smile. “I’m his the same way my father is yours.”
“And Ossetia will be Princess Gemma’s. Chale has no other heir.”
“Gemma? His cousin?”
“Niece. Her mother was Chale’s sister.”
Rohan saw Maarken look down at the first of his Sunrunner’s rings—a garnet that had belonged to Gemma’s older brother Jastri, Prince of Syr, who had died fighting on Roelstra’s side against the Desert.
“She’s sudden
ly become a very important young lady,” Maarken observed.
“And Waes will be overflowing with men trying to catch her eye.”
Maarken gave a start. “Not me!” he exclaimed.
“Have you someone else in mind?”
Blanching slightly, he hesitated and then shook his head. Rohan only smiled. Maarken returned to the main subject, a tactical maneuver not lost on his uncle. “Where’s Gemma now?”
“At High Kirat with Sioned’s brother Davvi. They’re all cousins through the Syrene royal house. Gemma’s still a Princess of Syr, of course, and technically Davvi’s ward.”
“She’ll need the High Prince’s consent to marry.”
“Yes. And what if she chooses someone I can’t stomach as the next Prince of Ossetia? Or even worse, what if the man she picks is unpalatable to Chale? He and I don’t agree on much.”
“If you interfere too much, you’ll be accused of trying to control Ossetia through Gemma.” Maarken made an annoyed gesture. “And there’s Firon! This on top of that isn’t going to make you very popular.”
“Watch the greedy High Prince gobble up land and power,” Rohan agreed bitterly. “We don’t need to explore this fully right now, Maarken. Is Pandsala competent at Moonrunning?”
“I’m not sure. She has five rings, and that makes her an apprentice—but I’m not sure how much training she had before she left Goddess Keep. I’ll ask.”
“Good. If she’s capable, then you two can divide up faradhi duties for me tonight. I need to get word to Davvi to put a guard on Gemma, if he hasn’t already done so. Pandsala can send our condolences to Chale, Regent to Prince. They’ll both appreciate that. You’ll have to contact Andrade. I don’t think she and Pandsala have exchanged a word in fifteen years. And Sioned will have to know all of it after you’ve finished with the rest.” Rising from the bed, he looked at the clothes laid out for him. “Have Pandsala arrange with her steward for gray mourning. Where is the ritual held here?”
“For the dead of other princedoms, the oratory.”
“Ah. I’d hoped to see it under more pleasant circumstances. I’m told it’s a marvel. Have I forgotten anything, Maarken?”
“Not that I can think of. Do you want me to send Pol in here to you?”
“Yes—do that. Thank you. Then go find Pandsala for me, and we’ll get started.” Brushing the hair from his eyes again, he said, “And remind me to tell Pol that under no circumstances is he to so much as look at Gemma unless he absolutely has to. The only thing I lack is a rumor that their marriage will give us Ossetia. Besides, she’s—what, ten winters older than he?”
“Boys grow up fast at nearly fifteen,” Maarken commented.
Rohan made a sour face. “I don’t think he realizes yet that girls exist.”
“Boys grow up fast at nearly fifteen,” Maarken repeated, and grinned.
The candles guttered in neat rows, the warm brilliance of their first burning faded to uncertain glimmers. Rohan stood before them, acutely aware of the darkness behind him. It was long past midnight, the ritual over. He had spoken to the assembled highborns and dignitaries here in the oratory, brief words about the loss suffered in the deaths of Inoat and Jos, fulfilling his obligation as High Prince. The candles had been placed along the back wall, and everyone had gone down to the dinner waiting for them. Rohan told himself he ought to be there, too, even if this was no longer an official ceremonial banquet, for he was hungry and Pol would want him near while everyone took his measure. But Pol had Maarken and Pandsala to see him through any rough patches, and Rohan wasn’t ready to join them just yet.
The oratory was an exquisite thing, a half-dome of faceted Fironese crystal projecting out from the cliffside castle, furnished with white chairs covered by white velvet. By sun, moons, or stars, it would glow. But the sky had turned black shortly after moonrise, clouds the color of smoke obscuring all light. Only the candles shone, and they burned low.
Outside the Ossetian seat of Athmyr, the bodies of father and son would be ablaze now on a shared pyre. Old Prince Chale and his faradhi would wait and watch through the night until flesh became ash, and then the Sunrunner would call up a gentle breath of Air to carry the ashes over land that had given the two princes birth, land that they would never rule. Candles would burn in honor of that funeral fire here in this oratory and at similar places in each princedom: the small glass-domed chamber at Davvi’s High Kirat, the central hall of Volog’s court at New Raetia, the faradhi calendar room at Graypearl that Pol had described in awed detail. Rohan wondered where Sioned would hold the ritual at Skybowl; Stronghold had a chamber for the purpose, but Skybowl had no such facility. He imagined she would choose a place outdoors by the lake, perhaps even float candles out across the dark water.
The same had been done at Skybowl for his father—of whom Roelstra had spoken here in this very chamber on the night Zehava’s body had burned to ashes in the Desert. Rohan doubted that Roelstra’s elegy had been heartfelt.
Turning from the candles, Rohan glanced up at the crystal ceiling where flickering lights reflected in the etched panes. Where the clear dome met the stone floor thirty paces from him was a table bearing silver and gold plate and two cups of beaten gold. The chunks of uncut amethyst set into the goblets were said to have fallen from the sky with the first sunset. Only one marriage had ever been celebrated with them, that of Roelstra to his only wife, Lallante. Rohan supposed that sooner or later Pol would stand here to wed some suitable girl. The ruler of Princemarch could hardly avoid being married in his own oratory. Yet despite its beauty, Rohan could not banish the chill he sensed within this room. Roelstra had ruled here too long.
He paced silently down the white carpet to the center of the chamber, directly below the place where crystal met smoothed rock high overhead. The panes were set in delicate stone traceries that must have taken years to carve. He admired the workmanship but wondered why he could sense none of the crafters’ joy in creating such beauty. His mother’s gardens at Stronghold—her life’s work and her pride—had a different feel altogether. She and a small army of workers had transformed the barren wards of the castle into a miracle of grace and growing things: every flowerbed, tree, bench, and curve of the little stream bespoke pleasure in the making. His own refurbishing of the Great Hall had something of the same feel to it—artisans delighting in their skills that produced such marvels. This oratory, despite its magnificence, was a cold and lifeless place that not even the gentle candlelight could warm.
He told himself he would feel differently about it once he had viewed it in full sunshine. He would be able to see across the vast canyon to the opposite cliffs, and down to the rush of the Faolain far below. The oratory would not then feel like a crystal bubble clinging in darkness to the side of a mountain, isolated and chill and redolent of his enemy.
Rohan turned quickly as the doors swung open. Pandsala stood there, candlelight limning her body and turning her gray mourning gown and veil to dark liquid silver.
“Everyone is asking for you, my lord.”
“I’ll be down in a moment. How fares my son?”
She smiled, dark eyes glinting with pride. “Charming everyone, of course, just as I expected.”
“Don’t let his pretty manners fool you. He can be a terror when he pleases, and stubborn enough for six.”
“Would he be a boy if he weren’t? My chamberlain’s four sons have been my pages, one after the other, and each more mischievous than the last.” She moved into the room and the doors swung shut behind her. “Because he is a boy with those qualities, though, I thought I should warn you. He’s heard about the old custom of proving one’s strength and courage by scaling the cliffs opposite the castle. I’m afraid he’s taken it into his head to try.”
“I’ve heard about it. The idea is to slide back down on the ropes—a little like flying. I can see how that would appeal to him.”
“You’ll forbid it, naturally.”
Rohan chuckled. “Let me tell you somethin
g about my hatchling, Pandsala. Forbidding him to do something is tantamount to issuing an open invitation for him to work his way around to doing it anyhow.”
“But it’s too dangerous!”
“Probably.”
“And he’s so young!”
“He’s older than Maarken was when he went to war. Pandsala, if I forbid it, he’ll only go off and do it on his own I could lock him in his rooms and he’d still find a way of getting out and doing just as he pleases. With Pol, you have to use sweet reason and a guile even greater than his own—and sometimes not even that works.”
“But, my lord—” she began.
“Let’s go downstairs. I’ll show you something about our stubborn prince.”
Rohan had only just supplied himself with a plate of food and a winecup when his offspring came through the crowd, Maarken right behind him. “Watch,” Rohan whispered to Pandsala, who looked on worriedly as Pol sought permission to test his strength and courage against the cliffs.
“And I was thinking, Father, that it would be good for us politically, too,” he finished with admirable if transparent shrewdness.
“As well as terrific fun,” Rohan added.
Pol nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve done some climbing around Stronghold and Skybowl, and Prince Chadric took all the squires to some rocks near Graypearl for lessons. It was right over the ocean, too, so I know all about how to go climbing over water without getting nervous. May I, Father? Please?”
Rohan pretended to consider, though his decision had already been made—prompted partly by Pandsala’s automatic assumption that he would forbid this. “What arrangements would you make for this feat?”
“Well, I know it’s a little dangerous. But Maarken could come with me if he wants to, and Maeta loves to go climbing—and if we had a group of people who’ve done it before, then they could take the lead and show us how. It won’t be that much of a risk, Father. And if I’m going to be prince here, I really ought to show them what I’m made of.”