by Melanie Rawn
Lost to all else in the intensity of the encounter, he never saw the battle that raged around him for a few brief moments. He showed her an image of the lake at Dragon’s Rest, the sheep kept there for the exclusive use of her kind. A low hum reached his ears and he smiled when she painted light in the form of his palace, the blue-gray stone all aglow in the dawn. He was aware of her agony, but as a remote thing now, not the shrieking fire in her wing and foreleg. But when he tried to convey help—a splint, salves, tender care for as long as it took for her to heal—tears ran down his cheeks at her reply: an image of her own lifeless corpse. She would never fly again, even with a mended wing. And a dragon without flight was as a faradhi shut away from the sun.
“My lord! My lord, please! Come back!”
He whimpered with pain as someone shook his injured wing. It passed, and his own arm was gripped in Edrel’s trembling hands. He looked up at the boy.
He said thickly, “Get Riyan—tell him to send the dragon into sleep, spare her any more pain—” All at once he remembered why he was on his knees in the grass, and twisted his body around. “Sweet Goddess,” he whispered.
Rialt and the guards had come, but not in time. Ruval and Marron were gone. There was blood on Riyan’s tunic, more on his hands; he rubbed his ringed fingers convulsively, as if he would chafe the skin raw. He stood over Pol with a stricken, desperate look in his eyes.
“Sorin—” he began, and choked.
“No,” Pol breathed. He hauled himself up with Edrel’s help and stumbled to where his cousin lay. The blood on Riyan’s hands had come from the gaping wound in Sorin’s thigh, the urgent pulse weakening. A frantically applied tourniquet was useless; the deep artery had been severed.
Pol sank to his knees and brushed the sun-streaked brown hair from his cousin’s eyes, and tried to swallow his sick fear.
Sorin met his gaze. “My prince,” he said softly, his voice steady. “Lost them—I’m sorry.”
“No. Sorin—”
“Let me speak, Pol.” The corners of his mouth turned up in a slight smile. “They’re a threat to you and need killing. Do that for me.”
He nodded helplessly, then flung a look at Rialt and Riyan. The latter had unashamed tears in his eyes that terrified Pol; the former merely shook his head and glanced away.
“Doesn’t hurt, really,” Sorin whispered. “Tell Mother that.” A sudden gasp negated his denial of pain.
“Easy, easy,” Pol soothed, taking the water skin from his belt. “We’ll get you back to Elktrap and—”
“No. To Feruche.” His eyes lost focus for a moment, then sharpened. “I know you can’t trust Andry as I do—but at least try to . . . understand him. For my sake, Pol. Please. And for your own.”
“Sorin—”
“Promise. Never asked . . . anything of you, my prince . . . I’m asking now.”
Pol cleared his throat. “Yes—anything, Sorin. Please—I need you.”
He smiled vaguely and his eyes closed.
“Sorin!”
The hand on his arm made him look around. Riyan was white with shock. He held out both shaking hands, the shining rings dark with Sorin’s blood. “Pol, there was sorcery at work here.”
“They’ll die for it,” Pol heard himself say. Then he wrapped his arms around Riyan’s trembling shoulders, and they both wept.
Chapter Eleven
Castle Pine: 7 Spring
“Your grace!”
“My lord!”
A swift, wary embrace like that of two dangerous animals in an unnatural mating, and Miyon of Cunaxa stepped back. He was tall, leanly made, with deceptively lazy eyes and a mouth too wide for his narrow face. During the seventh winter of his reign and the nineteenth of his age, he had personally executed the greedy advisers who had thought to rule Cunaxa forever through him. For the last twenty years he had ruled with an authority that had challenged the considerable power of his fractious merchant class. He desired two things in life: safe, inexpensive trade routes, and the Merida out of his princedom. His lips parted in a smile over sharp white teeth as Ruval bowed to him, for here was the means to acquire both.
“Forgive the necessary secrecy of your reception,” Miyon said, waving the younger man to a chair. “I am not yet in a position to welcome you openly. But accept my congratulations on your recent accomplishments.”
Ruval laughed. “If you mean the dragons, thank you. But if you mean Sorin of Feruche’s death—my brother Marron was responsible. I wouldn’t insult my sword with the blood of anyone under the rank of prince.”
“By which you mean Pol. I see. Well, I’m grateful to your brother, then, for leaving Feruche without a lord. I’m considering giving it to my eternal pests, the Merida.”
Ruval’s face froze in a pleasant smile. “Your grace understands that it is the castle of my birth.”
“Of course,” Miyon agreed blithely. “And belongs to Princemarch. But that’s why you’re here, is it not? To find out what I want in exchange for my help in getting what you want.”
“Your grace is very direct.”
“It saves time,” Miyon acknowledged. “Where is your brother, by the way?”
“Enjoying the hospitality of the guards mess, the better to fit in with your suite when you go to Stronghold.”
The prince could not disguise his astonishment. “What?”
Ruval, having betrayed Miyon into an honest reaction, smiled again as he followed up the advantage. It would not last long; he had made a study of the Cunaxan prince. He shifted his shoulders gingerly against the talon wounds on his back and said, “It would be entirely natural for you to wish a pre-Rialla discussion with Rohan, Pol, and Tallain of Tiglath—who speaks for Tuath Castle as well these days, since Kabil has no sons to follow him and his holding will undoubtedly go to Tallain on his death. Working out a trade agreement prior to the Rialla at Dragon’s Rest will put all three princedoms in a position of strength when it comes to further negotiations with Dorval, Grib, and so on.”
“How very clever of me,” Miyon drawled, angry that he had been outthought but too pragmatic to argue. Then his dark eyes began to sparkle with genuine glee. “And in my party at Stronghold will be you, your brother—and my daughter, Meiglan.”
“Exactly, your grace. I knew you’d find it an interesting proposal.”
Miyon leaned back in his chair, long legs sprawled in front of him. “Well, well. Now I understand. You’ll be disguised, of course. Members of the guard, I suppose. I hope you’re able to hide yourselves well. Pol has already seen you.”
Ruval waved away his worries. “You needn’t be concerned, your grace. Only get us to Stronghold, and we’ll do the rest.”
“Stronghold.”
Hate and envy lurked beneath the rich tones of Miyon’s voice, but the emotion in his eyes was covetousness. Ruval had never understood why the prince so desired that pile of rock on the Desert’s edge; perhaps it was a symbol for him, the way Castle Crag was to Chiana.
“You may have Feruche with my goodwill,” Miyon was saying. “But Stronghold is mine. And Tiglath.” He paused. “And Skybowl as well. That’s my price.”
“Done,” Ruval said, relieved that help was coming with so cheap a promise. “I’ve always thought draining the lake at Skybowl would make an intriguing agricultural project.” He smiled. “Tiglath is obvious, of course. Profits should increase tenfold once your merchants don’t have to triple the price of their goods because of transportation costs.”
Miyon’s brows rose. “I cannot describe to you how relieved I am that you comprehend trade objectives.”
“I should have thought they’d be clear to anyone with eyes to look. No one could visit Swalekeep, for instance, as I have, and not see the difference between its level of prosperity and your own.”
“The Desert strangles us,” Miyon agreed. “Tricks us, extorts money—” He broke off with a frown. “Perhaps you have some thoughts on a matter that has vexed me for some years now. Why is it that Rohan is so
damnably rich?”
Ruval blinked. It was not a question that had occurred to him before. His grandfather Roelstra had been extremely wealthy, so he had assumed Rohan’s revenues from Princemarch had swollen Desert coffers all these years. He said as much to Miyon.
“Perhaps,” the prince admitted. “But consider what’s been spent in the last eight or nine years. Feruche appears to have been built out of Sorin’s share of Chaynal’s obscene wealth—and the iron that bitch Sioned tricked me out of in 719. Yet there’s been no discernible decrease in Sorin’s reserves—not that he’s around anymore to enjoy them, for which I must remember to thank your brother. And then there’s Dragon’s Rest. Total up the cost of the buildings, furnishings, carpets, fixtures—everything down to the silk napkins. It’s a colossal amount, probably equal to five years of revenue from Princemarch.”
Ruval leaned forward, intrigued. “Yet it doesn’t seem that he’s beggared my princedom.”
“No. And the sum I estimate is not even the whole. I am immediately informed whenever a caravan makes its way to Dragon’s Rest.” The prince grinned suddenly, as if daring Ruval to discover his sources of information. “They come from Castle Crag, from Syr, from Ossetia, from Radzyn—”
“Supplying still more items that look as if they were purchased by other courts!” Ruval made an incautious move and hid a wince as his shoulder twinged.
“Precisely. The money involved is staggering. Where is it coming from? Your grandfather was rich, but not that rich. And Rohan is fool enough not to take advantage of his position as High Prince to accept gifts in exchange for his favor.
“Do you know where he’s getting the money, your grace?” Ruval asked, not bothering to disguise his eagerness.
Miyon shrugged irritably. “If I did, would I be sitting here trying to puzzle it out? There’s something else, too. The Desert took much less time to recover from the Plague than other princedoms—especially considering the amount of gold Rohan paid Roelstra for the drug that cured the disease. He didn’t demand money when he distributed it elsewhere. He didn’t bleed his vassals dry to pay for it. Where does his wealth come from?”
“When we capture Stronghold, we’re likely to find out.”
“Possibly. But I would rather find out before that, so we don’t have to go looking for it. I don’t trust Rohan, he’s too clever. He wouldn’t keep his treasury at his own castle. Perhaps it’s at Remagev.”
“Or Radzyn or Feruche—or Skybowl,” Ruval murmured.
Miyon grinned. “Second thoughts about your bargain, my lord?”
“Not at all, your grace. Princemarch’s wealth will be quite enough for me.”
“And your brother?” Miyon asked shrewdly.
Ruval only smiled.
The prince snorted his amusement. “I see. Well, then, shall I take you to meet my daughter? Or would you prefer anonymity as far as she’s concerned?”
“The latter. She should be as innocent as the first snow.”
“Stupidity is a great guarantee of innocence.”
Smile fading, Ruval asked sharply, “Has she brains enough to do as told?”
“She’ll ride where she’s reined,” Miyon said with a curt shrug.
They left the private suite for the antechamber where other petitioners waited. Ruval had come as a merchant pleading for patronage; it was a trifle unusual to gain an audience alone, but the court chamberlain was notoriously addicted to bribes. Those who had no money to buy their way in and must wait their turn cast sidelong glances of loathing at Ruval.
He ignored them, but could not ignore his brother. Marron lounged in the doorway, where he was not supposed to be. He had been ordered to the mess to learn what he could so he and Ruval could fit in easily when the time came. Ruval could have strangled him as he ambled forward to greet Miyon.
Marron gave the prince a smile that clearly said, I, too, am Roelstra’s grandson—and you will understand that, cousin. Before he reached them, however, a young girl, perhaps seventeen and perhaps not, came into the antechamber from a side door. She was delicately slender and had a glory of golden hair and very dark brown eyes that glowed with excitement, and she was incredibly beautiful if one appreciated the type.
“Father?” she ventured. “Oh, Father, please let me thank you for—”
“Meiglan!” The prince glowered down at her and she stopped dead in her tracks, all the pretty flush of enthusiasm dying from her face.
So this was the girl, Ruval mused.
“I-I’m sorry—” she stammered.
Miyon made a visible effort and smiled at her. “No matter, my little treasure. Run along now. You may thank me later for your gifts.”
Marron had paused a few paces away from them. The girl backed away from her father and Marron advanced once more, smiling as if to an equal.
“Your grace,” he said with a bow. “You favor me with your notice.”
“We are pleased to entertain the proposals of clever merchants in our princedom,” Miyon responded. “But we have many others to listen to this day.”
Ruval took the hint and escorted his brother out.
They made their way by a back staircase to the doorway of the mess. All Ruval said, between his teeth in fury, was, “Get in there and do as you were told!”
Marron chuckled. “As you command, brother dear.”
Ruval watched for a moment as Marron used the charm perfected in Chiana’s court to ingratiate himself. But beneath the affable grin was a profound distaste for the company of common soldiers. Neither did Ruval look forward to submerging his identity in that of a hired swordsman. But it was necessary in order to get within Stronghold’s walls. Marron, taken on as escort, would bring along a “friend.” And they would walk right into Rohan’s castle, unsuspected.
Suspicions roiled in his own mind, though, as he left the castle and walked through town. Where did Rohan’s wealth come from? Miyon’s reasoning appeared sound, but exacerbated curiosity rather than satisfying it. Reaching the precincts of the merchant district with its shops and public houses, he glanced at the sun and decided he had time for a contemplative wine cup before meeting Mireva at their lodgings in the poorest section of town. He chose a tavern and sat in a corner with a crudely made glass container of sweet, potent wine made from pine cone resin, ignoring all around him as he thought the matter through.
One of his few really clear childhood memories—other than the horror of the night Feruche had burned—was of gold. Ianthe had taken him to the deepest level of the keep one night to show him their wealth: square, palm-sized gold ingots stacked on shelves in a locked room. He remembered touching one with almost superstitious awe, taking as many as he could into his hands, feeling their heaviness, flinging them up into the air to make a glittering rain by torchlight. He could still hear echoes of his mother’s delighted laughter.
But should it not have been minted coin in sacks, rather than ingots?
He scowled into the golden-brown wine. Sediment had gathered at the bottom, leaving the liquid almost clear. A swift glance told him that the few patrons were paying him no attention. He spun the necessary mental threads and plunged his thoughts into the wine, cupping his hands around the glass.
He never looked at her without a thrill of pride that this magnificent woman was his mother. He didn’t understand why her body was growing so thick, but the extra flesh dimmed her beauty as little as the darkness of the staircase. He clung to her hand as they descended, his breath rasping in his throat with the dampness and the chill and the excitement of sharing a secret. When she unlocked the door of the storeroom, he flinched back as torchlight struck a flare of gold brighter than the Desert sun. He looked up at her face in wonderment and she laughed, setting the torch in a holder and flinging her arms wide as if to embrace the wealth stacked neatly on the shelves.
It was real; he touched it, took up handfuls of it and flung it toward the ceiling to watch its enchanting glitter as it fell. And he was laughing, too. He plucked up one of
the leather sacks from the pile near the door to pretend he was robbing the treasure room. His mother laughed and told him he didn’t need to steal it, it was all his, just as the Desert and Princemarch would be.
Ruval pulled in a deep breath and looked up. No one gave him so much as a glance. He poured the wine down his throat and left a coin in the cup to pay for the drink.
After a long, aimless walk through the streets to clear his head, he allowed himself to remember what he’d seen. Peripherally he was aware that the question of paying for rebuilding Feruche was answered; Sorin must have found the treasury in the rubble. He also knew that his mother’s increasing bulk had meant she was pregnant with her last child, Rohan’s son who had died with her that terrible night. But something else concerned him now, something a little boy had seen but not recognized.
The ingots had been carried to Feruche in leather sacks left tidily folded in case of future need. By law all raw materials and finished goods indicated place of origin. Crafters had their various hallmarks, holdings and princedoms their colors or ciphers. Cattle and goats were branded; pottery, furniture, ironwork, and other manufactured items were stamped. Foodstuffs were labeled on packing crates, wine on bottles. The gold ingots at Feruche had been no exception: on those sacks had been the image of Skybowl.
But it was silver they took from the ground near Skybowl. Ruval kept walking, distracted by his thoughts, and annoyed honest citizens by pushing peremptorily past them in the crowded residential section of Castle Pine. Threadsilver Canyon was named for the metal mined there for a hundred years—yet the leather sacks of gold had been stamped with an outline of Skybowl. Not Stronghold, not Radzyn, not Tiglath, not any of the other important keeps of the Desert. Had Rohan been clever enough to arrange this bit of misdirection if anyone noticed the sacks rather than the gold? Or had this been an oversight?