by Melanie Rawn
He was aware of the Giladans behind him, struck dumb at the sight of a Sunrunner at work. The complete stillness of total concentration while standing in sunlight was unmistakable. But they had almost surely seen it before, he thought. His mother’s quiet laughter rippled through his mind.
Of course they’ve seen Sunrunners at work. But never a Sunrunner who is also a prince. No wonder they’re startled. But it won’t do them any harm to be reminded exactly who you are. What news from them, Pol?
It can wait while you tell me what brings you here. He sensed her colors darken subtly, and frowned. When she had finished telling him about Sorin and Riyan’s discovery of a dying dragon, he was seething with fury.
That’s two dragons slain, Pol. And your father says it’s undoubtedly a deliberate provocation.
But why? Who’d kill a dragon to flout the law, or even for sport? The stipulated penalty—
—is severe. But whoever has done this doesn’t care. He probably wants to be found. Sorin and Riyan will search for him. I expect to hear more tonight, and if I don’t, then I’m going to contact Riyan myself.
I’ve been discussing penalties, too. He gave her a brief summary of the talk just concluded, finishing with, Andry’s arrogance is beyond belief!
Yes, his mother responded thoughtfully. But it’s exactly what Andrade would have done. Tell the Giladans that your father will consider the matter very carefully—and get that Sunrunner out of the dark if you possibly can. There was a quiver of emotion along his mother’s shining colors, a thrill of fear that he did not understand. Before he could ask any anxious questions, it was gone.
They want to make it a bargaining point, he told her bitterly. My instinct is to tell Cabar that Andry will pay the fine if I have to skin him alive to get him to do it. But this way, it looks as if I’m agreeing with Cabar just to get that poor woman back into the sunlight where she belongs.
Andry has a lot of explaining to do, she observed. I’ve kept you long enough, my son. Send to me tomorrow at noon, and we’ll talk further.
And her elegant pattern of colors faded down the sunlight.
Pol raked his hair from his forehead and swung around to face the stunned Giladans. The entire conversation had taken no more than a few moments. But during them Pol had made several decisions.
“Lord Barig,” he said, “the High Princess agrees with us that the Sunrunner must be given other quarters. We have explained the situation to her, and she also agrees with our analysis. Nothing can be done until we have spoken with Lord Andry. But we remind you that he will probably be more disposed to an amicable settlement if he knows his faradhi has been taken out of the dark.” Using his mother’s phrase, he recalled her mental shiver and wondered if it was from more than a faradhi’s understandable fear of being shut away from the sunlight.
Andry’s attitude had evidently not occurred to Lord Barig. He nodded slowly. “I understand, your grace.”
“Good. We will be leaving tonight for one of our northern holdings. Please feel free to remain at Dragon’s Rest and refresh yourselves for the journey back to Gilad.”
“I thank your grace.”
Pol left them, Edrel at his heels. When they were far down the curving corridor, sun through the open windows striking bright glints off silver and copper candlemounts on the walls, Pol said,
“Tell Rialt to come to my chambers. Then order the grooms to have five good horses ready by sunset. And I’ll want to see the under-chamberlain and the commander of the guard as well.”
“Where are we going, my lord?”
Pol glanced down at the boy. “We are not going anywhere. I am going to Elktrap Manor. You are staying here to make sure those damned Giladans don’t linger more than a day or two. Let them go plague Chiana for a while.”
“My lord, as your squire it’s my duty to be at your side—”
“Edrel, just do as I ask. We can argue about it later.”
Dark eyes rounded in shock. “My lord! I would never presume to argue about anything with—”
He stopped, took the boy’s shoulders, and smiled. “Forgive me. I know you wouldn’t. I should have said we’ll discuss it later. All right?”
Edrel nodded. “Very good, my lord.” His tentative responding smile suddenly widened into a grin. “You should have seen their faces when you were Sunrunning!”
Pol choked on laughter, but not over the astonishment of the Giladans. “Edrel! If you’re not careful, you’re going to develop a sense of humor.”
“Oh, I hope not, my lord.” The young face raised to his was the portrait of earnest gravity—but the eyes held a dancing glint that made Pol laugh anew.
The household organized by Rialt for Pol’s comfort and convenience went into smooth, efficient action as his orders were made known. By sunset six horses carrying Pol, Rialt, three guards, and Edrel—who had won his point—were cantering toward the narrow northern pass out of the valley. At moonrise, when a confused and then horrified Riyan located Pol, the group was twenty measures from Dragon’s Rest.
But you can’t come to Elktrap! That’s exactly what this dragon killer wants!
Will you relax? And don’t you dare go looking for him without me. Tell Sorin it’s my order that he stay put. You can leave if you want, of course—you’re my father’s vassal, not mine. But Feruche—
—is technically part of Princemarch, and you know damned well I won’t leave without Sorin. That’s a nasty trick to play on a friend, Pol.
But necessary. I know both of you too well.
He smiled as Riyan slid along skeins of moonlight back to Elktrap without more than a mental grunt in reply. And it occurred to him as he rode through a spring night bright with moons and stars that he was, like his father and grandfather before him, finally going to go dragon hunting. Because where a dragon was, this slayer of dragons would be.
Chapter Ten
Elktrap Manor: 5 Spring
The trail to Elktrap was a fairly direct one, and they made good time. But after several steep climbs and nerve-shredding descents through the Veresch, Pol was looking forward to a rest. He didn’t even have to enter Elktrap to receive welcome; a lovely young woman was waiting outside the gates with a wine cup of a size that sent a flush of relaxation through his muscles just looking at it. Reining in, he smiled gratefully down at her as she bowed low. Straightening, she lifted the cup.
“Be you welcome to Elktrap Manor, and rest within,” she said in the ritual formula of mountain folk.
“Lady Ruala,” he said, identifying her by the black braids and green eyes that her grandfather, proud of her beauty, had described in great detail at a vassals’ conclave last year. “How did you know this is just what I need?”
She smiled back. “I know these mountains, your grace. Every traveler who comes through here is in need of a strong draught of wine.”
He took a long swallow, sighed with pleasure at the fine vintage, and gave the cup back to her. “With this and your smile to refresh me, my lady, I’ve almost forgotten that last pass. Whoever named it Tumblewall knew exactly what he was talking about.”
Ruala chuckled and went to offer wine to Rialt, Edrel, and the three guards, repeating the traditional words of welcome to each. Pol hid a grin as Rialt’s gaze widened slightly; she was indeed very beautiful, with the slim, quick figure of a girl and the graceful poise of a woman. The combination of black hair, white skin, and lustrous dark green eyes was enough to make any man look thrice. Add a tip-tilted nose, a charming smile, and that indefinable something about a woman of breeding and intelligence who knows her worth, and Lady Ruala of Elktrap was a formidable creature.
Once inside the gates, their horses were taken by grooms. Riyan, Sorin, and Lord Garic descended the short steps of the manor house, the latter giving him warm welcome. The former two still looked slightly disgruntled. Pol grinned at his friends.
“Oh, stop glowering. I’m here and you’re stuck with me. And I’ve been thinking about how best to trap this dragon
killer. Riyan, you and I can weave sunlight and go looking from here, after you give me the picture of him you got from the dragon.”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“And stop being so formal—I already know you disapprove of my being here.” He turned to Garic as they entered the wide downstairs hall that seemed entirely carved of dark-stained pine. “And that reminds me, I’d be honored if you and your granddaughter would call me by my name.”
“The honor is ours. Although I’m afraid our folk will bow and stare quite devotedly.” The old man chuckled. “They’ve never served a prince before.”
Rialt laughed as they started up the stairs. “The easiest way to rattle his grace here is to bow to him fifty times a day. It keeps him humble.”
Ruala sent him a gentle frown of puzzlement. “I don’t understand.”
For a moment the chamberlain looked as if he’d wink at her. “He’s just like his father, my lady—treating him like a prince is the best way to remind him he’s only a man like the rest of us.”
Pol made a face. “Thank you for sharing that piece of wisdom with us, Rialt. My lady, you see what I have to endure in my own palace.” He hesitated on a landing, catching sight of the group in a magnificent old mirror. It wasn’t himself he stared at, but Ruala—the dark-gold sheen cast onto her skin, the misted secrets in her eyes. Goddess, she was beautiful—
She smiled at him in the mirror. “Startling, isn’t it?”
He nodded helplessly, and with an effort shifted his eyes to the frame. “Exquisite work.”
“The craft is a lost one, more’s the pity,” Garic said. “They used some combination of metals we don’t know how to make anymore. The glass seems to be special, too.”
“Isn’t there one at Skybowl like this, Riyan?” Pol asked.
“It belonged to my mother. I’ve no idea where she got it or how old it is.”
“Very, if it’s similar to this one.” Garic asked casually, “I believe your mother was Fironese?”
“Mm-hmm.” The young man traced a section of knotwork with a careful finger. “When I was little, I had the feeling sometimes that somebody was watching me from inside the mirror.” He looked around, embarrassed, and shrugged.
“They’re all like that,” Ruala said, exchanging a quick glance with her grandfather that Riyan missed and Pol did not. “My sister and I used to try to sneak past this one so it wouldn’t see us!”
“All?” Sorin inquired. “How many more are there?”
“We have this one, and four small hand mirrors. And another one almost this size, but the glass cracked about ten winters ago and the replacement doesn’t feel the same at all.” She started up the next series of steps.
“Andry’s interested in mirrors,” Sorin remarked as the men followed her. “The way Rohan is fascinated by things like water clocks.”
“Is he?” said Lord Garic politely, then let the subject drop by saying, “I think you’ll find this a pleasant chamber, my lord. Ruala, did you have them bring up the mossberry wine?”
“Allow me, my lady,” Rialt said, going to the table to serve the highborns.
Pol relaxed in a soft chair and nodded thanks to his chamberlain for the wine. “Beautiful tapestries. Giladan, aren’t they? Riyan, I want to hear all about touching that dragon—later. For now, tell me everything that happened from the time you found him.”
Between them they made quick work of the tale, and Riyan finished with, “I’ve already tried to find him on sunlight. No luck. But now that you’re here, there’ll be two of us working. He can’t be more than three or four days’ ride in any direction, but that’s still a lot of territory to cover.”
“Our people have been instructed to keep their eyes open,” Ruala offered.
Pol nodded his thanks. “Excellent. But I don’t think it will take very long to discover this man’s whereabouts. All we have to do is look for dragons.”
Sorin made an annoyed gesture. “Father’s always telling me not to be more stupid than the Goddess intended! Why didn’t I think of that? Of course he’ll go after another dragon!”
“Of course,” Riyan echoed. “I just hope that when he does, we won’t be too far behind him. I don’t want to see another one dead, Pol. You can’t imagine the horror of what he did to the poor beast.”
“Show me,” Pol said simply.
Riyan hesitated, then rose from his chair and fetched a fat white candle from the sideboard. Wrapping the fingers of both hands around it, he called Fire to the wick. Ruala blinked; Garic showed no reaction at all. The little flame flickered, steadied, rose to five times the height of a normal flame, and expanded to encompass the conjuring Riyan created within it.
Some moments later Pol was aware that there was blood in his mouth; he had bitten the inside of his upper lip. He forced himself to think clearly, to calm his sick fury at what had been done to the dragon. “Show me the man’s face as the dragon saw it.”
The arrogant, clever, handsome face appeared, blue eyes laughing above the violet clothes. Pol felt hate twist his vitals. He banished that emotion, too, and tried to read that face while committing it to memory. There was something familiar about it, but nothing he recognized as coming from a particular region or a specific highborn lineage.
Fironese heritage like Riyan’s—dark eyes, dark skin, dark hair—was easy to identify. Pol’s light hair and eyes came from his grandmother Milar, a blonde like most natives of the Catha Hills. In one remote area of Dorval, everyone had the same short-fingered hands; the shepherds on the south coast of Kierst were substantially taller than most people. Even in the more diverse populations, such as that of Einar, certain characteristics regularly appeared. Pol knew all the regional distinctions and none of them applied to “Aliadim.”
Of course, with every generation such telltale signs blurred a little more. In the families of princes and athr’im, who habitually married outsiders, definitive traits were only accidents by now. Tobin was obviously of Desert stock with her black hair and black eyes, but Rohan was as blond as their mother. Pol’s squire, Edrel, lacked the thin streak of white in his hair that had been characteristic in his family for generations. And in the Kierstian and Syrene royal lines, of which Pol was a part through Sioned, the green eyes and the gifts of a Sunrunner from Goddess Keep who had married a Prince of Kierst showed up sporadically.
He didn’t notice that Riyan’s candleflame had guttered out. He stared into empty space, Fire still burning his eyes and searing the face into his mind. Something was itching at his perceptions, like a half-heard insect whine or a barely felt twitch in a muscle. If not identifiable by region or family trait, then possibly—
No. He knew the bloodlines, legitimate and otherwise, of every noble family in all the thirteen princedoms. Audrite had drilled him in genealogy as part of his training at Graypearl. That this man did not have specific signposts as to his origins did not mean he was a mixed-breed highborn.
Still, there was something tauntingly familiar about that face. He looked forward to seeing it in person—and would take great pleasure in altering it with his fists.
Aware that the others were trying not to stare at him for his long silence, he roused himself and spoke. “Very well. Now that I know who to look for—”
He broke off, knowing suddenly why he had been jumpy a few moments earlier. He ran for the sunlit windows, Sorin a half-step behind him. He had felt it, too; it was said that their grandfather had had this particular talent to burn. Pol had come into the perceptions late, but at last that oddest of family traits in all the princedoms had awakened in him. Proof that he possessed it flew over the towering pines: a dragon.
He gripped his cousin’s arm and felt Sorin’s muscles shiver just like his own with the awe-filled joy of seeing a dragon. No matter how many times he saw the great beasts, the tingle along his nerves that heralded their arrival and the transcendent wonder of watching them in flight moved him to his marrow. This one was a fine, full-grown female, green-bronze in c
olor with black underwings. She flew a lazy series of spirals perhaps half a measure from them, as if she knew she was being watched and wanted to show off her beauty and her skill. She rode the wind like some fantastic twin-sailed ship, soaring, drifting, beating her wings to take her upward again. On or about the fortieth day of spring she would fly with her kind to the Desert, there to choose her mate and wall up her eggs in caves to bake through the long summer. Fifteen or so of her hatchlings would die in the cave, too weak to struggle out of the shell, to break down the wall, or to avoid becoming a sibling’s first meal. Perhaps three would live to fly—a far greater number than in olden times, when men had slaughtered the survivors as they emerged into the sunshine. Rohan had outlawed the Hatching Hunt long ago. Killing a dragon had been forbidden for the length of Pol’s life.
But someone was trying to kill this one. She faltered in midwingbeat and a cry that was half fury and half terror thundered through the mountains. Her head lashed back on her neck, her tail whipping from side to side in frantic rhythm. The balance of flight lost, she plummeted to the ground like a falling stone.
Ruala found her voice first. “He’ll kill her if we don’t hurry!”
Riyan’s head jerked around. “What makes you think you’re coming along?”
She opened her mouth to protest as the three young lords and Rialt hurried to the door, Pol shouting for Edrel. Her grandfather clamped both strong hands around her shoulders from behind to keep her from following. She twisted to glare up at him.
“Don’t even think of it,” he told her.
Ruala shook him off. She went to the windows that overlooked the courtyard, where nearly every servant at Elktrap had joined in the frantic scramble to saddle and bridle fresh horses. Pol was mounted first, then Riyan and Sorin, and finally Rialt. They clattered out the gates, the squire and three guards galloping behind.
“I’ll be going with them soon, though, Grandsir,” she said thoughtfully. “After all, one of those young men is going to be my husband.”