Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire

by Melanie Rawn

  Ruval left the gates of the town and walked out beyond the first fields. Torrential winter rains had washed away topsoil in buckets, and farmers were trying to encourage the crippled land into its yearly yield of grain. He walked past their ponies and wains and anxious conferences, up a hill and in among the trees. Over the rise was a ravine likewise stripped bare by the rains, where not even enough grass grew to sustain sheep. The place was deserted, and it was from this privacy that he worked a hated but useful Sunrunner spell.

  Skybowl crouched like a brooding dragon on the shores of its perfectly round lake. The crater had filled way past its usual level, and a trench had been dug to drain the water. Ruval paused, noting that bags had been filled with sand to guide the course of the runoff; these bags bore the outline of Skybowl. With Lord Riyan absent, his blue-and-brown pennant did not fly over the keep. But there was plenty of activity and a line of pack horses just disappearing over the crater rim on the route to Threadsilver Canyon. Ruval followed on sunlight to where perhaps thirty men and women went about the business of hacking silver from the walls of long-abandoned dragon caves. At the bottom of the canyon light flickered from within a large cavern; the smelter, Ruval guessed. But no evidence of gold.

  Frustration gnawed at him. Returning to Cunaxa, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, thin, hexagonal gold coin. He turned it in his fingers for a moment. Mireva had given him this coin. It depicted an outline of Castle Crag on the obverse, his grandsire’s profile on the reverse: both proud, regal, commanding. Rohan had recalled all money minted by Roelstra, replacing it with coins stamped with his own crowned dragon. But Mireva had kept this one and when he had become adept enough had presented it to him. But it was more than a souvenir.

  This coin was dated 703, the year before Roelstra’s and Ianthe’s deaths had splintered Ruval’s world, and it had been struck from some of the gold Rohan had paid for dranath. And if he was fortunate, contact with Fire would release a vision of where it had been minted and, earlier even than that, where it had been forged.

  He conjured a gout of pallid Fire in the dirt and knelt beside it, glad he had imbibed enough dranath that morning to facilitate the spell. Dropping the coin in the flames, he spared a moment for appreciation of his own disciplined mind, working with Fire he’d created to gain a picture of fire many years dead. The primal attraction of each element for itself functioned with smooth swiftness; he was soon looking at the thin, sweat-streaked face of the artisan who had made coins of liquid gold. Ruval squinted at the sudden brightness, his eyes tearing. But he forced the spell back further, seeking the flames from which the ingot had sprung.

  His vision was limited by the dazzle that stung his eyes. But there, just beyond the glowing run of molten metal into molds, he saw them. Faces—a man and woman, wearing Skybowl’s colors. Harsh fire-thrown shadows behind them on cave walls. And stacks of finished ingots—not silver, but gold.

  Smelted at Skybowl after all—

  An excruciating blaze made him cry out. He was drawn farther back, to another fire.

  Dragon fire.

  Seared by a hatchling’s breath that dried his wings, shining flecks trapped in broken shells melded together in another elemental bonding.

  Dragon gold.

  Ruval cried out again as he wrenched himself from the spell. The Fire vanished, leaving a blackened patch of earth. The coin was still hot when he picked it up.

  With shaking hands he scooped dirt to hide the scar. It was a long time before he could stand. But when he did, he began to laugh very softly.

  Skybowl. Dragon caves. Dragon gold. How sweetly, perfectly logical. That he had promised Skybowl to Prince Miyon bothered him not at all. It had never been planned that his grace of Cunaxa would live long enough to take possession.

  Mireva stepped out the kitchen door into the squalid back court. Towns, even one as small as Castle Pine, offended her. The dirt, the stench, the crowds, the closeness—all were poisonous to her senses and exhausting to her mind. She hated the tiny, cramped upstairs room she had slept in for two nights now, hated it almost as much as she hated the greasy-haired slattern who ran this place. They had just concluded a stormy passage featuring Mireva’s opinion of the slop the woman had the gall to term “dinner.” Only her own prohibition against use of power and the fact that she, Ruval, and Marron had nowhere else to go prevented her from blasting the woman to quivering jelly. The foray into the back courtyard was an attempt to calm her nerves. It did not succeed.

  The first stars had appeared in the dusk, barely visible over the eastern wall. Mireva gazed at them longingly, their light burning into her eyes. So clean, so beautiful and diamondlike, so welcome after a long, irksome day of bright sun outside and dim corridors within.

  She heard Ruval’s soft footstep a few moments before he spoke. “If not for the prize to be won, I’d say let’s get out of this swine-wallow and go home.”

  She kept her gaze fixed on the emerging stars. “If not for the prize to be won, I would agree with you.”

  “You haven’t said what you thought of Meiglan.”

  “She’ll do.”

  “But what’s she like?”

  “Small, frail, spineless, and fascinatingly beautiful. She accepts me as Thanys’ friend.”

  “Not as her relative?”

  Her jaw clenched at the biting mockery in his voice. He knew how she prided herself on her pure diarmadhi blood and how she hated admitting that any of her family had polluted that blood by marrying common folk. Thanys was indeed related to her, and not as distantly as Mireva would have liked. The woman was her grandniece. But this was not the time to renew her anger, useless at this late date anyway, over the stupidity of her family. Besides, Ruval and Marron were talented enough, even though only quarter-breeds like Thanys.

  She ignored his question. “It will be easy enough to go with her when her father takes her to Stronghold. I assume you’ve presented the idea to Miyon?”

  “Of course. I’m more interested in the girl, though. Can she be trusted?”

  Mireva gave a snort. “She only knows how to be afraid, and her fear cancels any wits she may otherwise have. She’ll be useful only as long as she’s afraid of her father.” Ruval knew as well as she did the inevitable fate for those who were no longer of any use. This reminded her of someone else. “Marron has many soothing things to say about Chiana. She can be trusted only so long as her imagination stays within limits. But I fear that when military maneuvers begin, she’ll start scheming again.”

  “Not even you can be in two places at once. We’ll keep an eye on what goes on at the Princemarch-Meadowlord border.”

  “So will Rohan, through Sioned. It should make him good and nervous.” She chuckled, bad humor easing at the thought of Rohan’s discomfort. “He’ll recognize the tactic, of course—‘training exercises’ was the excuse used by Roelstra in 704. I must remember to ask Marron to tell me how he got her to think of it on her own.”

  “It’s so obvious a copy of grandfather’s ploy that Rohan won’t suspect our interference. But Chiana still has ambitions for Rinhoel. They may be more or less submerged, thanks to your time with her in Swalekeep, but she still has them.”

  Mireva shrugged and walked the broken cobbles over to the well. The water level was only a few handspans below the stone rim, its underground source saturated over the winter. She reached down and trailed her fingers through the water. “I don’t like having to use her. But Miyon is even more unreliable. They each have their own grudges and their own ambitions which could be dangerous if indulged. There are limits even to what we can do, Ruval. We have no army of our own, and so we must make it seem as though we have the resources of others to draw on. But it’s such a risk.”

  Ruval stared down at her in the gathering dark, “What need do I have of an army? Or are you losing faith in me?”

  “Listen to me, you fool!” She swung around, her words low and vicious. “You may know almost—and I stress almost—everything
I do about the ways of our ancestors. And with those ways you will defeat Pol and take us back to our rightful place. But Rohan and Pol are different from us. They think like princes, of armies and politics. So we will use those things to distract them. Chiana will provide the army, Miyon the politics. We’ve already given them knowledge of your identity—and that at the back of their minds all spring will make them ever more anxious about Chiana and Miyon. We’ve presented things they understand and will try to counter in their usual ways. But when you appear with your unusual challenge, on our terms, they won’t know how to deal with it. They’ll try to use their accustomed methods—which won’t work.”

  Ruval nodded slowly. “I understand. But there’s another factor here: Andry. If rumor and our observations are correct, then he’s the one thinking like us.”

  “Dangerously so. But this business of the Sunrunner in Gilad is a wonderful stroke of luck. Rohan will have no choice but to support Prince Cabar’s right to punishment—and thoughts of you and the diarmadhi threat you represent will be on his mind in this, too. He’ll be thinking of the support of the other princes against us. But his problem is to give the appearance that there’s not one law for Sunrunners and another for ungifted folk. He must come down on the side of general law, consistent with his policies and mindful of the other princes—and your presence. Idiot!” she spat suddenly. “He entertains the conceit that we who are gifted with power are subject to the same legality and morality as the common herd!”

  “Andry will be furious,” Ruval mused. “He won’t give Pol any substantial support. Not that he would have, anyway. They’re jealous of each other’s power.”

  “And this will only make it worse. After we’re finished with Pol, Andry will be next. And he does not think like a prince,” she warned.

  “Leave Andry to me, just as I’ll take care of Pol. Besides, we’re providing other distractions, too.” Ruval smiled. “And I’m assuming you have one or two more in reserve.”

  “One, certainly.” She smiled back.

  “I can almost feel sorry for Pol. But at least he’ll be well-educated before he dies.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Feruche: 9-10 Spring

  “Tell me.”

  Pol sent a pleading glance at his mother, unable to deal with Tobin’s quiet, desolate command. Sioned met his gaze solemnly, said nothing, and from the compassion in her eyes he realized that this was one of the terrible times, when being a prince meant taking responsibility even when one was helpless. He nodded slightly and touched his aunt’s shoulder, drawing her from the tapestry room that had been Sorin’s pride out to the broad balcony overlooking the Desert. The others remained indoors—Sioned, Chay, Hollis, Tallain. Rohan, true to a vow Pol neither understood nor dared ask about, had not and would not set foot in Feruche itself, and was staying in the refurbished garrison quarters below the cliffs. Sionell and Ruala were with Hollis’ son and daughter and Sionell’s own little girl in the hastily arranged nursery, away from the grief that children could not understand. And Maarken and Riyan were readying the ritual that would take place that night.

  The dunes spread out in heaped gold before them. Pol stared out at the endless Desert, wondering how he should begin. Tobin had said very little since arriving yesterday evening. She had spent the night beside her son’s body, and though all preparations had been made by Ruala, she had insisted on washing Sorin once more and dressing him herself in the colors of his holding and his heritage. The blue and black of Feruche in his tunic; the red and white of Radzyn around his waist; the fierce blue of the Desert in the cloak covering his body—silk and velvet she placed on her son, her eyes dry and her face set in stone.

  “Tell me,” she said again, and for the first time he heard her pain, like a low moan of thunder in the distance. He faced her, took both her hands, and made himself look down into her lusterless black eyes.

  He told it slowly, completely, leaving out nothing but Sorin’s dying agony. He spared himself not at all, filled with bitter self-hatred for losing himself in communion with the dragon while Marron attacked. He let her see the scene as Riyan had described it to him. Ruval scrambling to his feet, lifting his blade to take Pol’s life. Sorin’s desperate intervention. Marron seizing Edrel’s slight form, throwing the squire bodily at Riyan. Ruval’s defenses weakening, the talon slashes across his back crippling his sword arm. Marron plunging his sword into Sorin’s leg, shattering the bone as well as severing the large artery. And the burning of Riyan’s rings that meant sorcery had been used somehow.

  “Riyan . . . Riyan says he and Edrel had to pull the sword with all their strength to get it out of the wound. He thinks it was some binding spell, something—oh, Goddess, and all the while—it’s my fault. He saved my life and I was—if I hadn’t been caught up in the dragon—”

  “Hush.”

  “But it’s true.” He forced his gaze to meet hers. “Andry was right. If I’d been able to help, Sorin would still be—”

  She pulled her hands from his and he flinched. But the next instant she reached up, framed his face with small, delicate fingers. “Andry had no right to say such a thing to you. He was hurt and grieving, Pol. He needed someone to blame. When a twin loses his second self. . . .” She paused, shaking her head. “I saw it in Maarken when Jahni died of Plague. Andrade felt the same thing when my mother died. Don’t blame him for what he said on moonlight. And don’t blame yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Wasn’t it?” he asked bleakly. “Sorin said that I should try to understand Andry.”

  “And you promised that you would.” Tobin stroked his forehead, and then her hands dropped to her sides. She turned from him, folding her arms atop the carved stone balustrade. Her voice was soft, tired, wistful. “I bore my husband four sons. Four strong, proud, beautiful boys, grandsons of a prince. I watched them grow and learn and play at dragons. I saw one of them dead and burned before he was nine winters old. Now I’ve lost another of my sons.” She was silent for a long time. Pol watched her head slowly bend, her shoulders rounding as if grief would crush even her indomitable spirit. At last she straightened again and glanced up at him. There were tears in her eyes, unshed. “Thank you for telling me, Pol. It can’t have been easy for you.”

  “For me—?” he began incautiously, then gulped back the rest. She didn’t need his guilt and sorrow added to her burden.

  “You’re Sorin’s cousin, his friend, and his prince. And I think losing him is teaching you things you’d rather not learn about the pain of your position.”

  How had she known? He stared at her in awe, knowing he would never have her wisdom. Her compassion. Her understanding of what it was to be a prince.

  She looked back out at the Desert. “Something astonishing is going to happen this spring,” she mused. “Something that happens only once in a hundred years. My father heard of rains like these from his father, who saw them once in his youth. I can already feel it beginning, Pol. The land is still in shock, I think, from so much water after so long a drought. But I feel the restlessness. It’ll happen soon.”

  Pol looked down at her, puzzled. She glanced up, smiling slightly.

  “Those not of the Desert marvel that we can find our empty sands so beautiful. So compelling to the spirit. They think that because it doesn’t bloom or bear fruit it’s a dead land, a place the Goddess forgot to give life. But what she gave us is so much more miraculous than the bounty that comes to others every year. They take their riches for granted. But we of the Desert understand how precious life really is, how it blesses us and seems to vanish, but always returns, always lives anew.”

  He struggled to understand. “Like—like the sun each day, or the dragons every three years.”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but yes, like the sun and the dragons. Always returning.” She stared blankly at the dunes. “Jahni and Sorin will never stand before me again. Never smile at me again, never—but they are alive in this land, just as my father and mother live here
still. Earth and Air, Fire and Water, all of what they were lives in this Desert that seems so lifeless to those who cannot understand.” She sighed quietly. “Go back inside now, please. I want to be alone for a little while.”

  He nodded, feeling more helpless than ever, and hesitated a moment before bending down to kiss her cheek. Her arms went around him and he was startled as always by the strength in her tiny frame. When she released him, the tears had spilled over and he had enough wisdom to leave at once.

  Sionell had come downstairs from the nursery, and was helping Edrel pour wine. She glanced over as Pol entered, nodded slightly, and continued speaking.

  “—so we finally got them to sleep. Ruala’s going to sit with them for a time and make sure they stay asleep, and a little later their nurses will take over the watch. Hollis, I can’t tell you how lovely Chayla has grown since I last saw her.”

  Pol was impatient with the ensuing talk of children, and only gradually realized that Sionell had deliberately introduced the topic as a soothing counterpoint to grief. Hers was another form of wisdom, he thought: she was wise in the ways of people and their needs. But he could not enter into the give-and-take of anecdotes and tales of baby tricks. He was as restless as Tobin had said the Desert was, like an itching deep in his blood and bones that demanded—something. He made an excuse to his mother and left the room to prowl the halls and towers of Feruche until nearly dusk.

  Sorin’s corpse was burned that night in the sands below Feruche. Oils and piles of sweet herbs and spices thickened the air, borne upward with the smoke of the pyre. Pol stood alone in the silence, waiting for dawn when he and the other Sunrunners of his family would call up a breath of wind to scatter the ashes across the dunes. As the moons made their stately way across the star-strewn sky he knew he should be thinking of Sorin: the friendly squabbles they’d had as children, his pride in his cousin’s elevation to knight and athri, the affection and respect they’d shared as young men. But with every scene that came to him, Ruval’s face intruded. His might not have been the sword that killed Sorin, but his was the responsibility. He wants my princedom—and my death. What he’ll get instead is—