Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire

by Melanie Rawn

  Dinner being perforce over, Riyan ordered Jahnavi to have small cakes and hot taze sent up to each bedchamber, and dismissed his new squire for the evening. He then went to help Camigwen’s nurse put her to bed—not an easy task, for the child had seen the dragons, too, and wanted an instant repeat of the morning’s game with her big brother. To the nurse’s dismay, he obliged. Wearing wings made of a blanket, he swooped around the room while Jeni squealed with laughter and tried to “slay” him with a wooden spoon. At last Alasen came in, calmed the uproar, and had her daughter smartly in bed with the promise of one more game of dragons tomorrow before they left for Stronghold.

  “But I thought you were going to stay for a little while,” Riyan protested as they left Jeni to sleep under her nurse’s watchful eyes. “I know Sorin wants Father’s advice about Feruche. I was thinking of riding up there with him and Walvis tomorrow.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. You three can go while I visit Sioned.” She gestured him to a chair and seated herself on a couch, leaning forward to pour cups of steaming taze from the pitcher which had been placed on a low table. “Rohan wants us to look in on the work at Dragon’s Rest, so we’ll return to Princemarch through Dragon Gap. Just us and the horses, no baggage wains or anything. Although your father will probably spout some nonsense about having me carried in a litter the whole way. Sioned says he was absurd when your mother was pregnant with you and he was certainly that way before Jeni’s birth.”

  Riyan chuckled. “From what I know about my mother, I can’t see her paying any attention!”

  “From what I know about her, she probably laughed in his face! I can tell it’s in his head to stay here until spring. But if this child is a boy, he should be born at Castle Crag.”

  “Of course,” Riyan agreed.

  She shifted and looked down at her elegantly slippered feet. “I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.”

  He held up a staying hand and smiled. “I know what you’re going to say. Skybowl is all I want, Alasen. I’d be a disaster in a place as grand as Castle Crag. You’re a Princess of Kierst, born to that kind of life, and you’ll teach it to your children. Your son can have Castle Crag with my profound gratitude.”

  “Are you sure?” she worried. “It’s the most important keep in Princemarch until Dragon’s Rest is finished. And even after, the whole of the north will be governed from there. And it’s the major trading center in the Veresch. Your talents could be put to excellent use at a busy castle like that. And it is your right as Ostvel’s eldest son.”

  Riyan shook his head. “He had absolutely nothing to give me until I was six winters old and Rohan gave him Skybowl. I don’t want anything else, truly. I’m Desert-born and bred. I’ve seen enough of other places to know that this is where I belong.”

  “As long as you’re certain. . . .”

  “I am.”

  “This is going to sound awfully sentimental,” she murmured. “But if this baby is a boy, I want him to grow up just like his elder brother.”

  Ostvel said from the doorway, “I’m sure he will, though it’ll be none of my doing. My children have remarkable mothers.” He crossed the room and bent to kiss the crown of her braids. “And here I thought you were simply getting fat!”

  She assumed a cloyingly sweet expression, her voice all honey-wine as she replied, “At least I have a good excuse.” She prodded him in the stomach.

  “My belt’s been in exactly the same notch since I was your age!”

  Riyan grinned. Ostvel, realizing he was being teased, growled playfully down at his wife and then kissed her again. He then took the chair beside Riyan’s. “Sorin’s got a little expedition going up to Feruche tomorrow, Alasen. Would you mind traveling down to Stronghold without me?”

  “It’s already settled,” Alasen replied, pouring a cup of taze for him. “I’ll have more time with Arlis this way. I wanted to give him a while to settle in before I went to see him.” She sighed and shook her head. “I can’t believe my little nephew is old enough to be Rohan’s squire! And I’m so relieved that Saumer agreed with Father about his fostering.”

  Ostvel shrugged. “A mutual grandson is no guarantee of mutual agreement on his training.”

  “How old is Arlis now?” Riyan asked. “Nearly eleven?”

  “Yes.” She poured a cup of taze for Ostvel, then leaned back and sighed. “Father thought that maybe he’d have faradhi gifts like me, but he didn’t so much as bat an eyelash on the sail from Kierst-Isel.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “I only experienced it once, but Sunrunner seasickness isn’t something I ever want to go through again.”

  Riyan noted with interest that, for the first time in his hearing, she had admitted what she was. She must be feeling easier about it. Three years had passed since the terrifying events of the 719 Rialla, memories that could still give Riyan nightmares of death and sorceries and unspeakable pain.

  “That’s why she married me,” Ostvel said. “To avoid another crossing.”

  “So Arlis isn’t faradhi,” Riyan mused. “That’ll be a relief to the other princes.”

  “The stupid, prejudiced ones,” Alasen said in disgust.

  He shrugged. “Look at it from their point of view. I’m no bother to them. They hardly know I exist. But Maarken’s going to inherit Radzyn one day and all his father’s power in the Desert. As for Pol—he makes them so nervous they practically flinch whenever he’s mentioned.”

  Ostvel sipped at the hot drink. “There was plenty of hostility three years ago. And he wasn’t even fifteen then, still only a child, completely untrained in the arts. By rights he should have gone to Goddess Keep last year.”

  “Sioned won’t ever send him, will she?” Riyan glanced at his father.

  “I’d be astounded if she did,” came the frank reply.

  Alasen was silent for a moment, then said softly, “How horrible it must be for Andry—Lord of Goddess Keep and not trusted by his own family to train the next High Prince as a Sunrunner.”

  Riyan frowned. “You saw him at the Rialla. What was he like?”

  “Polite and proper and regal, just as he should be in his position and with his ancestry. And there was no trace of youth about him, Riyan. It hurt Tobin terribly to see it. So many responsibilities—and so many plans kept secret! That’s what they don’t trust. His innovations.”

  “I don’t hear much about that, being in the wrong camp for it.” Shaking his head, he added, “I hear myself dividing us up into factions and it scares me.”

  Ostvel sat back, sprawling his long legs in a casual posture belied by the tension in his face. “But that’s where we’re all headed, isn’t it? Andry on one side, Pol on another, and suspicious princes on the third. Andrade wanted to unite the continent under a Sunrunner High Prince. Instead, we’re splitting apart. And it’s going to get worse as Pol gets older.”

  Gesturing her annoyance, Alasen said, “When Lady Andrade had control over the faradh’im, the princes could at least be assured of her discipline. But the break between Andry and the Desert is obvious, now that Pol is old enough but isn’t at Goddess Keep.”

  “You’ve forgotten a fourth faction,” Riyan reminded her. “Sorcerers.”

  She got to her feet, pacing, her hands wrapped around the steaming cup. “That’s the worst of all! After hundreds of years they appear out of nowhere, then vanish again. Who can say where they are, what they think, what they’re planning? How will they next challenge Pol and Andry? Because it will be both of them, Riyan. They’ll have to stand together as faradh’im against the threat. And I’m so afraid their pride won’t allow it.”

  “Surely it won’t get as bad as all that,” he said, trying to soothe her. “After all, these sorcerers may not emerge again at all.”

  Alasen’s lips curled bitterly. “No? You felt their power, Riyan, just as I did, at Lady Andrade’s death and at the combat. Do you think something like that will be content to stay in hiding another few hundred years? If Pol and Andry can�
��t oppose them together, these sorcerers might win.”

  “Yes, I felt their power,” he said quietly. “Moreso than almost anyone. I’m of their blood, Alasen.”

  “And no more like them than your father is,” she emphasized.

  “Ah, but do we really know what they want?” Ostvel mused.

  Alasen leaned against the arm of a chair. “Faradh’im defeated them. They’ll want their revenge. But why now? What is it about now that makes them think they can succeed?”

  “They failed with Masul,” Riyan pointed out.

  “They weren’t half trying,” she scoffed. “I think he was a means of getting Andrade out of the way.”

  “Well, if it ever comes down to finding out who is and who isn’t of the Old Blood, then quite frankly I trust Pol’s protection more than Andry’s.”

  “Riyan!” Alasen stared at him. “You’re shadow-fearing, Sunrunner,” she said more calmly.

  “Am I? What about it, Father? What’s the easiest way to unite various factions? Give them a mutual enemy—or someone they perceive as an enemy.”

  “Alasen’s right,” Ostvel snapped. “You’re starting at shadows.”

  “Andry would never even think anything like that!” she added. “Riyan, you’ve known him all your life!”

  He had heard things recently to make him wonder if he had ever known Andry at all. He forced an apologetic smile and hid what was in his heart. “Sorry. I’m no politician, and all this playing one side against another confuses me.”

  Ostvel’s brows arched in eloquent doubt at this avowal of incomprehension, but he said nothing. While Alasen made a calming little ritual of refilling their cups, Riyan deliberately turned the conversation to Sorin’s plans for Feruche.

  But alone in his own chambers that night, he looked pensively at his rings. One way to tell faradhi from diarmadhi was miserable sickness when crossing water. Riyan, like purebred Sunrunners, had that problem—and knew that he also had the Old Blood in his veins, part of his mother’s legacy. His protection was her other heritage as a Sunrunner that gave him the reaction. But what about trained faradh’im whose power came solely from their sorcerer blood? Pandsala had been one of them. Crossing water had never troubled her.

  The only sure method of discerning one from the other was response to sorcery, when faradhi rings became fiery circles of pain around the fingers of anyone with diarmadhi blood. He wondered if Andry knew about that—and, if so, whether he would ever use that knowledge in ways that would make Pol’s protection necessary. Riyan thanked the Goddess that Pol was not of the Old Blood. At least Andry would never be able to threaten him on that score.

  Chapter Four

  723: Stronghold

  The sound of the dragon horn announcing visitors startled Rohan from concentration on his correspondence. A quick mental review of expected guests made him frown. No one was due here until winter. Sioned’s nephew Tilal and his wife Gemma were coming from Ossetia with their children to spend the last half of the season and the New Year Holiday; Maarken and Hollis had promised to bring their year-old twins from Whitecliff. But Rohan had counted on a peaceful autumn in which to catch up on work, and now there were visitors. Sioned was not even in residence, having ridden up to Feruche to see how construction progressed. She had not asked him to accompany her. They both knew he would never set foot near that place again as long as he lived.

  A knock sounded at the library door and Rohan called permission to enter. Arlis hovered there, wide-eyed and breathless. “My lord! I ran all the way up from the guardhouse—”

  “To tell me who’s here,” Rohan supplied, giving the squire a chance to catch up on his breathing. Arlis nodded, sun-lightened brown hair rumpled by one careless hand. “Someone important, from that blast on the horn. Who?”

  “Lord Urival!”

  Rohan could not help a start of surprise. No wonder the boy looked impressed. “Well, then, we’d better go greet him, hadn’t we?” He capped the inkwell and put away his pens, glancing once over the parchments littering the huge double desk. There was nothing on the tables that could not have been read by anyone. He trusted his servants down to the last scullery maid, and no one would have dreamed of entering the private office without explicit permission. But Sioned had insisted on extreme caution the last few years. Sunrunners were not the only ones who could weave light and look upon things that perhaps needed to be kept secret.

  “Lord Urival isn’t alone, my lord,” Arlis told him, holding out a damp cloth so Rohan could clean his ink-stained fingers. “There’s another Sunrunner with him, a woman, and they have two pack-horses loaded from ears to tails.”

  “It seems he’s planning a long stay. How many rings has this other Sunrunner?” Rohan scrubbed at a stubborn mark, scowled, and tossed the cloth onto his empty chair.

  “Eight.” The squire hesitated. “May I ask a question, my lord?”

  “Asking questions is largely what you’re here for, Arlis. Both your grandsires would be very disappointed if you did not. And they’d be even more unhappy with me if I didn’t try to answer.” He smiled and flicked a lock of unruly hair away from the boy’s deep-set eyes.

  “Lord Urival and this other faradhi are here with everything they own, it looks like. She’s too old to be of Lord Andry’s new training. Could they have come because Lord Andry threw them out?”

  Rohan considered his wife’s kinsman, this princeling who was all earnest face and troubled green eyes and child-soft features. Arlis would one day rule a united Kierst and Isel, a fact he had known almost before he’d learned to walk. Right now he was trying to think like a prince—admirable, but depressing to Rohan, who wanted the boy to stay a boy for at least a few more years.

  “Do you think that could be it, my lord?” Arlis said anxiously.

  “He’s probably just come for a visit, and has brought someone with him for company.” Or so Rohan devoutly hoped.

  Arlis looked relieved. Rohan sent him down to the kitchens to bring refreshment up to the Summer Room, where Rohan then repaired to receive his exalted guests. He had just seated himself in a comfortable chair when a servant scratched on the door, opened it, and announced Lord Urival and Lady Morwenna of Goddess Keep.

  Rohan went forward to greet them, hiding his curiosity as best he could. “A most welcome surprise, my lord,” he said. “My lady, please sit down. Something cold to drink will be here shortly.”

  “Amenities are so soothing, aren’t they?” Urival observed cynically as he sank wearily into a chair. “Essentially useless, but soothing.”

  “Pay him no mind, your grace,” Morwenna said. “He’s saddle sore.”

  Arlis hurried in with chilled wine. “I’ve ordered the Tapestry Suite readied, my lord,” he said to Rohan as he served. “Is that all right?”

  “As long as it has a bed and a bathtub,” Morwenna sighed, then grinned. “Actually, I’d settle for just the tub!”

  “Three rooms and a beautiful bath, my lady,” Arlis told her shyly.

  “Sounds perfect.” She inspected him as he gave her a goblet of wine. “You’d be Latham’s boy, wouldn’t you? Volog and Saumer’s grandson.”

  “I have that honor, my lady.”

  “Prince Arlis, I’m very pleased to meet you. My mother served as your grandfather Saumer’s court faradhi at Zaldivar for many years.”

  “I hope she was happy there, my lady.”

  “Very.”

  Rohan noticed Urival’s restless frown, and gestured the squire out. “That will be all, Arlis. Make sure the Tapestry Suite is ready quickly, please.”

  “Yes, my lord.” He bowed his way out and closed the door.

  “A fine lad, your grace,” Morwenna said. “I recognize the Kierstian green eyes.”

  “Sioned’s eyes,” Urival said. “Where is she, Rohan?”

  “With Sorin at Feruche. What brings you to Stronghold?” he asked, too bluntly, he knew, but Urival had never been one for in-direction.

  The old man shrugged.
“Tapestry Suite, eh? I don’t remember that one from my stay here in 698.”

  “My mother’s old rooms,” Rohan explained. “Sioned chose the hangings at the last Rialla and we renamed it. I assume your business is with her.”

  “It would be, if she were here. Since she’s not, I’ll burden you.” Urival’s smile was more of a grimace. “One of the privileges of your position, High Prince.”

  Morwenna, several years Rohan’s junior and with the dark skin, black hair, and tip-tilted brown eyes that marked her as Fironese, gave a derisive snort. “What he means to say, your grace, is that neither of us could bear to stay at Goddess Keep anymore and have come to burden you with superfluous Sunrunners. I knew the High Princess slightly when she was a young girl earning rings faster than Andrade could keep up with. In herself she’s more Sunrunner than you’ll ever need.”

  “She’d be pleased to hear you say that. But we’re informal here—if you don’t feel comfortable calling me by my name, then at least deliver me from being ‘my grace.’ ” He smiled, all the while fretting inwardly at Urival’s uncharacteristic slowness in divulging the reason for his presence at Stronghold.

  “Charm,” the old Sunrunner mused. “The whole family has it to one degree or another. Andry’s worse—he gets it from Chay as well as Tobin. Charmed all of us into accepting things we’d never have considered in a hundred generations. And by the time we realized where he was going with it. . . .”

  “Oh, for the love of the Goddess and all her works, tell him!” Morwenna snapped.

  Urival eyed her. “It’s the privilege of my seventy winters and nine rings to speak when and as I please.” He set down his untasted wine and sank back in his chair, looking every one of those seventy winters. His golden-brown eyes, remarkably beautiful in an otherwise unhandsome craggy face, were dark and lackluster. But not from mere tiredness, Rohan thought. There was an older and deeper weariness in him, one of the spirit.