by Melanie Rawn
Rohan’s lips twitched in a smile. “Maarken, how do you feel about this?”
The young man shrugged. “If he’s determined to do this crazy thing, then I’ll go with him.”
“Hmm. I’ll think it over.”
A flicker of disappointment showed in Pol’s face, but then he decided to put the best possible interpretation on the words. “Thank you, Father!”
A man approached, was introduced as Lord Cladon of River Ussh, and talk turned to other things. When Rohan and Pandsala were comparatively private once more, he turned to her and smiled. “Well?”
“I think I understand, my lord. He thought up ways to convince you it would be safe in order to win your permission. Had you dictated those terms, however, he would have been resentful—and defied you.”
“Exactly. A few days from now he’ll have researched the problem and presented me with further precautions for his safety—and he’ll know a great deal more about climbing than he does at present.”
“But you’d already made up your mind.”
“He’s right, you know—it would be an excellent thing if he proved himself at so young an age.” He watched as shock widened her eyes, correctly interpreted her expression, and answered it with, “Don’t think I’m not afraid for him, Pandsala. But I can’t wrap him in silk. I can guide his steps, but I won’t prevent him from getting a few bruises. It’s the only way he’ll ever become a man on his own, a prince worthy of the lands he’ll inherit.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but—” She hesitated, then went on, “We’ve all been reminded very painfully today of how quickly a prince’s life can be lost. Pol is simply too valuable to risk.”
“So was I.” He paused, then went on softly, “My parents kept me sheltered until I was thirteen—well past the usual age for fostering. When they did let me go, it was to my cousin Hadaan at Remagev—barely a day’s ride from Stronghold. I had a little more freedom there, but not much. By the time my father’s last war with the Merida came, I was frantic to prove myself, so I marched out disguised as a common soldier. It was a damned foolish thing to do. I could very easily have been killed. But they’d forbidden me to go as the heir, you see. Maeta’s mother, who commanded the Stronghold guard before her, caught me but decided to look the other way. She understood that I’d been more or less driven to it by my parents’ cosseting. My poor mother nearly had heart failure and my father was furious with me. But he also knighted me on the field.”
“And you don’t want Pol driven to the same kind of thing,” Pandsala mused. “Even so, my lord, it’s a terrible chance to take.”
“Sioned will be livid when she finds out, of course. But I can’t help that. I often wonder why I didn’t defy my parents much sooner. Perhaps it was lack of opportunity—but I suspect it was really fear of my father.” He shrugged.
“It was the same for me,” she said, looking anywhere but at him. “We were all terrified of Roelstra. But you never hated your father the way I did mine.”
“With us as examples, do you wonder why I allow Pol the freedom to do this? He won’t have the need to do anything as foolhardy as I did—”
“Or as wicked as I did. We are indeed edifying examples, my lord.” She gave him a tiny smile. “Very well, I understand—but I’ll make sure my best people go with him on the climb.”
“Thank you. It’s all we can ever do, you know—take what precautions we can, and trust to the Goddess’ mercy for the rest.” He sighed ruefully. “Frankly, the whole idea of this scares me silly. But I have to let Pol be who and what he is. He’s going to be, whether I allow it or not—so why fight it?”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“Besides,” Rohan finished with a grin, “my hatchling quite naturally wants to fly. Pandsala, I’d like to meet privately with each of the vassals tomorrow. Will you arrange it for me, please?”
“Of course, my lord.” She paused thoughtfully, searching his eyes. “Do you know, with all the differences between you and my father—both as men and as High Prince—I think it all may come down to one simple thing. My father never said ‘please’ to anybody in his life.”
Pol was glad of his thick leather jacket as updrafts from the river far below sent chill gusts along the cliffs. Summer was three-quarters over, and whereas in the Desert and at Graypearl the days would still be searingly hot, here in the mountains clouds had formed again last night. Having finally won permission from his father to make the climb—after four days of alternating pleas with detailed plans—Pol had been frantic lest a late-summer rain spoil his chance. They were due to leave for Waes in two days; the climb had to be this morning or not at all.
He looked down for the first time since beginning the upward struggle, and gulped. He hadn’t realized how far he’d come, how far below him the river now was. He clung more tightly to the iron ring driven into the rock face and forced himself to lift his head, trying to judge the distance to the top and how long it would take to get there. A tug on the rope around his waist signaled that it was time to make the next move across the cliff. He swallowed hard, refusing to admit that he had been a fool to attempt this climb.
As fingers and toes found holds, his confidence returned. This wasn’t much different from scrambling up ragged, wind-sculpted stone in the Vere Hills, except for the distance down. The view was splendid; he really did feel akin to the dragons. He imagined himself equipped with wings, bracing for flight and then soaring out over the gorge, every fiber of his body singing—
“Pol! Pay attention!”
Maeta’s command alerted him, and he was reminded that he definitely was not a dragon. He scrambled up to join her on a tiny ledge, breathing hard.
“Some fun, eh?” She grinned at him. “You’re doing fine. Give Maarken’s rope a tug and let’s get started for the top.”
“How much farther?” He squinted upward.
“About half the time it took us to get this far. Then we can have lunch, rest, and fly back down.”
“I wish we could’ve flown up.”
Maeta laughed and rubbed his shoulder affectionately. “It’s the challenge that counts. The privilege of flight has to be earned, you know. Besides, think of the nice, quiet ride back up the canyon when we’re done! I’ll even let you fall asleep on your horse. See you at the top, hatchling.”
She set off again and Pol watched her find the handholds near the next iron ring. Maeta threaded the rope through and tied it off to provide Pol’s support for the next part of his climb, just as she was linked to the man above her for safety. Soon Maarken had joined Pol on the ledge, panting to catch his breath.
“I must’ve been crazy to agree to this!”
“You and me both,” Pol admitted. “I’m running out of fingernails.” He held out hands scraped and bloodied by gripping sharp stone, and grinned at his cousin. “But it’s worth it! Take a look!”
Maarken seemed to inhale the sky and trees and cliffs, his gaze lingering as Pol’s did on the multicolored wild-flowers clinging to the rocks. “Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “But I don’t dare look down—last time I did I nearly lost my breakfast. I don’t think I’ll be able to climb my way out of bed tomorrow! But you’re right, it’s worth it.” He peered across the canyon, and pointed. “Is that your father and Pandsala?”
Pol waved and nearly lost his balance. Maarken steadied him with a firm grip on his shoulder. “Thanks,” he said shakily. “D’you think they can see us?”
“That blue jacket of yours must be visible for half a measure.”
“As if you’re inconspicuous!” Pol scoffed, flicking a finger against his cousin’s bright red. Another tug on the rope alerted him, and he set off again. After half a morning of this he was sure of what he was doing, but the ridges cut into the stone had been made for a full-grown person, not a boy coming up on his fifteenth winter. He had to stretch quite a bit sometimes to reach the holds, and his shoulders and legs were beginning to ache in earnest. “When the hell am I going to grow?” he muttered
as he scrabbled for a niche and barely reached it.
He was also eager to grow in ways other than height. Over the past few days Pol had sat in on talks with men who were nominally his vassals, and the ambassadors and emissaries from other princedoms. Rohan’s warning that a prince must listen to some very tedious people had been forcibly demonstrated; at times, Pol could barely keep his eyes open. But it was amusing to watch these people look back and forth from him to Rohan—one the real owner of Princemarch and the other its real ruler. They couldn’t seem to decide if they ought to be seriously concerned with Pol’s opinions or treat him with a kind of half-amused indulgence: the boy pretending to be a prince. It would be nice to be older, he mused as he sought for the next toehold, to be Maarken’s age and Maarken’s height, with Maarken’s easy authority.
He had just secured himself to the next ring when a metallic clang hit rock. His head turned, and something gray and slightly rusty flew past him down into the canyon. Looking up, he saw Maeta frozen on the cliff face, arms and legs outspread.
“Maeta!”
“Check the ring, Pol. Hurry.”
He inspected the iron circle and terror stopped his heart for a moment. The spike anchoring the ring had worked loose. If stressed, it probably would hold no weight greater than his own, and might not even support him for very long.
“It’s coming out, isn’t it?” Maeta called softly, her voice slightly breathless.
He explored the joining of spike and stone. “Somebody’s picked at it!”
“I thought as much.” She hesitated, then said, “My rope’s frayed, too.”
“The man ahead of you must’ve—”
“I don’t think so. Not and risk his own life in the process. Pol, untie the rope connecting us.”
He realized what she was asking. “No! If you lose hold, you’ll fall!”
“And if I fall with the rope tied to the ring and to you, I’ll take you with me. Do as I say.”
“Maeta—I can climb up to you—”
“No!” The force of her exclamation shifted her body, and pebbles trickled down from the slender purchase gained by her left boot. “Listen to me, kinsman,” she said more softly. “This is no accident. The ring that just fell had been dug loose. I was a fool not to see it before. I apologize, my prince.”
“Maeta, just hold still. I’ll come up to you. Neither of us will fall—”
“Damn it, untie the rope! I don’t intend to fall! But if I do, you and Maarken won’t be able to hold me, not with that ring ready to come out of the rock! Do it, Pol! The longer you take, the longer I have to stay as I am.”
He choked back another protest and did as told. Maarken, still on the ledge below, called up, “Stay put, both of you! I’ll get the rope around the rocks!”
“Maarken—don’t let her fall!”
Although what he thought his cousin might do was beyond him. His gaze fixed on Maeta, willing her to find a more secure grip. She found a crevice, then another, groping for holds that would take some of the strain from her muscles.
“Pol, don’t move.” Maarken was just below him. “I’ve lashed the rope to some rocks and alerted everyone below us. Let me past you and I’ll tie the other end to Maeta.”
Pol flattened himself against the cliff as Maarken maneuvered past his legs, finding holds where none had been carved into the cliff. “She’s more secure now,” the boy said, amazed at the calm voice he didn’t recognize as his own. “What do you want me to do?”
“Climb back to the ledge, get a grip on the rope, and brace yourself.” Maarken paused to pat his leg reassuringly, then slid by and started for Maeta.
It had been much easier to stretch upward with his arms than it was to grope downward with his feet while his fingers dug into the crevices. He was nearly to the narrow ledge when he heard a thin hissing sound that made him flinch with reaction. The steel tip of an arrow struck a spark off stone an arm’s length from his head.
“Maarken!” he yelled.
“Get behind the rocks!”
Another arrow brought a flash near Maarken’s feet. Pol scrambled to safety and stared across the gorge at Castle Crag. The arrows had to be coming from there, loosed by a viciously powerful bow to reach all the way across. But the towers were too far away for him to see the bowman, who might have been hidden in any one of a hundred windows. Pandsala, he thought irrelevantly, was going to be furious.
Maarken was right below Maeta now, his fingers within reach of her ankle. The climbers above her had tossed down a fresh rope, and she tried to grab it as they swung it closer to her hands. Maarken shouted to her to keep still. Another arrow and then another hit the stones with faint ringing sounds. Pol curled as small as he could get behind an outcropping of stone, fists clenched, salt sweat burning in his eyes. “Come on, come on,” he whispered. “Please—”
Maarken pulled himself up nearly beside Maeta, his arm reaching for her waist. She coughed and gave a start of surprise. Very slowly her hand reached back to fumble at the arrow embedded next to her spine, an arrow fletched in brown and yellow. Merida colors.
Her fingers loosened. Her tall body arched over backward, giving Pol a view of her already dead face, her sightless black eyes. It took forever for her to fall away from Maarken’s desperate grasp, away from the gray cliff, past Pol, drifting down to brush against jagged stones and finally disappear into the dark depths of the canyon.
There were no more arrows. Pol turned tear-blurred eyes to Castle Crag and saw a bright flame rising from the upper battlements. Like a torch flame at this distance, a single light against the shadowy bulk of the keep—but a flame that grew arms that thrashed in futile agony as Sunrunner’s Fire immolated human flesh. The torch flared, then sank out of sight.
He felt Maarken’s hands on his shoulders, heard sobbing breaths. “Pol—are you all right? Not hurt? Talk to me!”
He looked at Maarken without comprehension. Sweat and tears streaked his cousin’s face, and there was a gash circled by a swelling bruise on Maarken’s forehead. “I’m not hurt,” he heard himself say. “But you are.”
“Just a scratch. Never mind me. We’ll stay here for a while until you stop shaking.” Maarken’s strong arm went around him.
“I’m not shaking,” Pol said, then realized he was. He buried his face against his cousin’s shoulder.
“Shh. She’s worth more than our tears, Pol, but that’s all we can give her right now. Even though she’d scold us for it.”
“If—if she hadn’t made me untie the rope—”
“Then we would’ve lost you, too,” Maarken said thickly. “Sweet Goddess, to have that woman’s courage—”
After a time they quieted, and Maarken’s embrace relaxed a little. “All right now?” he asked, wiping his own cheeks.
Pol nodded. “I’ll find who did it, and I’ll kill him.”
“Pandsala already has. You saw the Fire. She killed with her gift.”
Shock warred with fierce joy that the archer was dead. But stronger than either, outrage stiffened Pol’s spine. Pandsala had acted peremptorily, killing the assassin before he could be questioned.
“She’ll answer to me,” Pol corrected. “I am prince here, and I’m the one they wanted dead. If the loosened rings didn’t do it, then the archer was there to finish me off. Why didn’t Pandsala order the man subdued and held?”
“I’m sure she’ll have a good explanation.” He waved to the rest of the climbers, who were making their way swiftly to the ledge. “Meantime, it seems we’re arguing with her for saving our lives. Would you rather be dead?”
“No. But she didn’t have to kill him—especially not that way.”
“Remember whose daughter she is.”
“And whose son I am.” Pol knuckled his eyes and took a deep breath to steady himself. “Did you see the arrows, Maarken? Brown and yellow. Merida.”
“Who else?”
Pandsala was not merely furious. In her father or her sister Ianthe, this rage would hav
e brought further executions. She wanted to find someone else to punish, someone on whom to vent this terrible fury of shame and fear. She watched the Merida burn down to ash in Sunrunner’s Fire and only the presence of the High Prince prevented her from calling the captain of her guard and killing him, too, for allowing a traitor to invade Castle Crag.
Rohan, set-faced, turned away from the writhing, stinking flames. His gaze sought the cliffs opposite, where Pol and Maarken were being helped up to the clifftop. He walked around the smoldering corpse and stood with his hands flat on the wall, the stone cool and gritty beneath his palms. The canyon gaped below him, magnificent and lethal. The Faolain River seethed white foam against the rocks. Had this been the Desert, scavenger birds would already be circling. But this was not the Desert, and they would find Maeta’s broken body far downriver or wedged among the crags—if they found her at all. Death in dark water was not suited to a woman of bright sands and endless skies.
He was aware of Pandsala’s presence behind him. Her rage made him marvel at his own deadly calm. He ought to be roaring out his fury, ordering reprisals against the Merida hidden in the valleys of Cunaxa. Twice now they had attempted Pol’s life; by rights he should be claiming a hundred Merida lives for each threat against his son. His northern levies under Walvis’ command were already near the border. He had only to send word to Sioned via Maarken on the sunlight, and the invasion would begin.
He knew why he would not. All the evidence was gone: arrows with their telltale colored fletching, face with its probable chin-scar, mouth with its secrets of identity and infiltration silent forever. The law was the law, and to act without evidence would be to become like Pandsala’s father Roelstra, a High Prince who did as he wished and shrugged at the law.
Rohan saw Pol and Maarken safely hoisted up to the clifftop, knowing they would rest for a time before making their long way around to the path to the crossing upriver. It would be past nightfall before their return to Castle Crag, before he could look on his son’s living face again.