Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire

by Melanie Rawn

  “They’d have his death and his princedom. What else could they want?”

  “Revenge. There’s not a vicious bone in your body, my love. You don’t think that way. But consider the sons of a princess, grandsons of a High Prince, condemned to obscurity all their lives.”

  Sionell nodded slowly. “It’s just what motivated Masul.”

  “But his birth was in doubt. Ruval and Marron know precisely who their mother was.”

  “Lucky them,” she said sourly. “Well, at least we don’t have to fear glass knives in our princes’ throats. Whatever happens will happen out in the open. Rohan’s already thought of all this, of course.”

  Tallain smiled. “He’d be shocked if we ever doubted it. I’m going to stall Miyon here until Rohan wants him at Stronghold. Which should make for an interesting spring, given Miyon’s behavior and your fondness for Meiglan.” He laughed suddenly. “Do you remember what Rohan said about him once? That rumor had it Miyon made a detailed study of human beings and learned to imitate them rather well. Not perfectly, of course, but he manages to get most of it right.”

  She gave him her sweetest smile. “My mother once carved up a dragon to find out how he worked. Perhaps I ought to do the same for Miyon.”

  It had been hard to arrange, but Ruval and Marron had their own chamber at Tiglath. Small, cramped for one person and nearly impossible for two, lacking window or fireplace for light and stuffy beyond toleration, still it had the one essential feature that made it perfect. It locked.

  Marron slid the bolt home and secured it. Ruval’s lips twisted at his brother’s long, relieved sigh.

  “Too much of a strain?”

  “Don’t pretend you’re not tired,” Marron replied irritably. “You may be used to the high dose of dranath necessary for this, but it’s not easy.”

  “Still, rather amusing, you’ll admit.” Ruval stretched out on one narrow cot, arms folded behind his head, staring up at the rough-hewn ceiling. “I never realized before what scant notice highborns take of those who serve them. For instance, I rode escort with Miyon and Tallain the other day to the merchant quarter, and neither looked twice at me. Miyon’s aware of the shape I’ve taken, but he honestly didn’t see me.”

  “I know what you mean.” The younger of the brothers leaned back against the wooden door, fists in the pockets of his trousers. “I used to get the same treatment at Swalekeep. Until I made Chiana notice me.” Peering at Ruval by the light of a candlebranch—outrageous expense that indicated the extent of Tallain’s wealth—he snorted suddenly. “You’re fading.”

  “I’m relaxing,” Ruval corrected. “And anyway, we diarmadh’im can more or less see through this if we’re looking for it. You are. The others aren’t.” He laughed. “I may spend tomorrow around Riyan, if I can manage it.”

  “Stay away from him!” Marron warned.

  “Stop fretting.” Kicking off his low boots with the soft heels that were mandatory within this residence of polished floors and priceless carpets, Ruval stretched. “Maybe you’re right about this being a strain. Or maybe I’m just bored. By the Nameless One, this bowing and scraping is hard on a man’s nerves. I don’t know how you tolerated it at Swalekeep.” Yawning, he untied the top laces of his light silk shirt. “I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

  “Well, let go of the working, then. And get some sleep.”

  “Such solicitude, brother,” Ruval said mockingly.

  “Self-preservation, brother,” Marron replied in the same tone. “If you start to waver, that’ll put an end to this. And, frankly, I intend to be a guest at Pol’s burning, not the centerpiece at my own.”

  Marron blew out the candles one by one. Eight small puffs—but he hesitated before the ninth, glancing at his brother to confirm the slow change. Gone was the eerie impression of sharper cheekbones, cleft chin, brighter hair, and longer jaw superimposed on the familiar like the presence of a ghost. Ruval’s face was again Ruval’s face, not the subtly altered features of a stranger.

  Marron let go of his own iron control, bolstered by huge amounts of dranath. He didn’t need to reassure himself with the sight of his own transformation in the small mirror by the door; he had watched it before, fascinated. There was little physical sensation either in the assumption of the differences or in their fading, only a slight tingle in his head as he projected the illusion.

  At first it had felt as if he was wearing someone else’s clothes—a good fit but not perfect, binding here, loose there. His movements and facial expressions had been correspondingly awkward, the way one walks against one’s natural rhythms, trying to compensate, when wearing another man’s boots.

  Only what he and Mireva had designed was a whole new skin, and it had taken time and work to adjust the fit.

  The loosening of the spell relaxed him. He glanced at the scar on his wrist, souvenir of a childhood mishap, now visible again. His mouth was his own once more—wider, full-lipped, stretching in his own smile as the release of tension washed through him. He imagined sometimes that he could even feel his eye color change from pale yellowish-green back to brown.

  At night even a diarmadhi mind must relinquish control, and anyone looking at him or Ruval would see their true forms and features. Thus the locked chamber. Mireva had no need for similar accommodations, and shared a tiny room with Thanys near the nursery. She had never been seen by any of their enemies; the only alteration in her appearance was a concerted effort to make herself seem even older than she was. Her illusion working would come later, at Stronghold.

  Marron made sure once again that the door was locked, then blew out the last candle and lay down on the second cot. The air was close and hot, and for the past six nights he had not slept well. But tonight he was exhausted, lack of sleep and accumulation of strain from sustaining the illusion finally catching up with him. After turning once or twice to find the least uncomfortable position, he sought and quickly found oblivion.

  He did not wake when Ruval sat up, pulled on his boots, and silently left the room.

  Mireva whirled angrily, nearly choking on a swallow of dranath-laced wine as the door opened and Thanys slid into their chamber.

  “Don’t startle me like that!” she hissed.

  “You think you got a fright—she’s gone!”

  The older woman’s jaw sagged for a moment before she collected herself. “Then find the little bitch at once! We don’t have all night!”

  “This isn’t a cottage—she could be in any of fifty rooms,” Thanys snapped. “Where do you propose I start looking?”

  “I thought I told you to make sure—”

  “She hasn’t needed anything to help her sleep. How was I to know she’d pick tonight to go wandering around the residence?”

  “Find her! And from now on keep your eyes open—and hers closed!”

  Thanys’ face tightened like a clenched fist. “I’ll try the kitchens. She didn’t eat much tonight at dinner—Miyon’s doing, again.”

  Alone once more, Mireva downed the last of the wine to keep her hands from shaking. Damn the girl—and damn Thanys for not following orders. It had taken serious effort to get her kinswoman appointed Meiglan’s servant two years ago, and even more work to arrange Mireva’s own presence here at Tiglath. Miyon knew what his bastard daughter was being groomed to do, and played his own part with real enthusiasm. But he’d balked at the idea that Meiglan’s consequence required an extra maid—especially when Ruval made the mistake of telling him Mireva would be a valuable asset in more ways than one.

  Well, it was done. She kept out of Miyon’s way, not wanting to intercept any caustic glances that might arouse suspicion. Princes did not deign to notice menials.

  Shrugging, Mireva slipped out of the room and padded softly down the hall, casting a brief, longing look at the nursery door. Behind it slept the children of Segev’s murderer. Later, she told herself firmly. It would be done when they were all at Stronghold—and preferably right in front of Hollis.

  With Mi
yon in his residence, Tallain had posted guards—supposedly of honor, but fooling no one as to their real purpose. Mireva smiled to herself, recalling what Miyon had said on arriving here: “By all means, Lord Tallain, put someone outside Meiglan’s door to guard whatever honor she has. She certainly didn’t inherit any from her mother.” Yes, he was enjoying his role in their little scheme.

  But there was no guard outside Meiglan’s chambers right now. Mireva, prepared with a distraction, was glad she didn’t have to expend the energy. Perhaps Thanys had been clever for once and enlisted the man’s aid in finding their wayward charge. But how had Meiglan gotten past him in the first place?

  Again she shrugged; it didn’t matter. What mattered was the tall form that suddenly detached itself from the shadows and crept toward her from the staircase. She opened Meiglan’s door and the two of them were swiftly inside the antechamber.

  “What’s going on?” Ruval demanded instantly.

  “Save your breath. We’ll have to hide you until she gets back and into bed again—” Her heart jumped painfully for the second time that night as she heard soft voices outside in the hallway. Flinging open the door of a huge standing wardrobe, she hissed, “In here! Quickly!”

  “This is ridiculous—”

  “Silence!”

  She slammed the wardrobe shut just in time. Meiglan was ushered into the antechamber by a scolding Thanys, looking chastened but with a spark of defiance in her big brown eyes. Mireva made a mental note to keep the girl away from Sionell; that lady’s independent spirit was influencing her.

  “—in the middle of the night! Whatever were you thinking of?”

  “I only wanted some taze and cakes—and the guard was kind enough to escort me downstairs so I wouldn’t get lost—”

  “My lady, you should have sent him to fetch me, and I would have had Mireva bring you something to eat,” Thanys said, with a subtly sarcastic look at the older woman. She went on talking all the way to Meiglan’s bed, where the girl was summarily tucked up beneath silk sheets. “—and hope you don’t dream after drinking Lady Sionell’s spicy taze at this time of night!”

  “Dreams don’t necessarily have to be bad ones,” Mireva said soothingly, deciding that her kinswoman could be forgiven the disrespect; she had just provided Mireva with a lovely opening for suggestion. “And Lady Sionell’s blend is a very good one, I’m told. I’m sure you’ll have happy dreams, my lady.”

  “Candles, Mireva,” Thanys ordered curtly, and when the room was in darkness the two sorcerers closed the door behind them.

  Mireva started to speak, but the other woman shook her head violently and motioned to the outer door—still half open. “Stay here tonight, in case she wakes again,” Thanys said, and smiled mirth-lessly, and departed. This time the door closed firmly behind her.

  Mireva liberated Ruval from the wardrobe. He stepped out, rubbing his nose. “Do you know how close I was to a sneeze?” he complained in a whisper. “That damned perfume of hers—my nose itches to the eyebrows!”

  “You’re the only man around here who doesn’t approve,” she countered. “But I may change it all the same—in case someone else has the same reaction.”

  “Do that. Well, I’m ready. Is she?”

  “In a little while. You know what to do—and what not to?”

  Ruval grinned. “It’s tempting, you know. Are you sure I can’t—”

  “Not if you value what you’d like to do it with! She must remain virgin.”

  “Oh, all right. If she smells the way her clothes do—let’s get on with it. By the way, how am I going to get out past that guard?”

  Mireva merely looked at him.

  “Never mind. A stupid question.”

  She pulled a leather pouch from her pocket and sifted some of its contents into her hand. Half she gave to him, and the rest she licked from her palm. “I know what it tastes like,” she snapped. “Eat it anyway.” When he had done so, grimacing, she drew in a deep, steadying breath. “Begin, Ruval. Picture him in your mind, just as you saw him in the flesh—the lines of his face, the shape of his body, the color of his hair. . . .”

  Sionell woke at Antalya’s first whimpers, alerted by that intuition born in most mothers with the births of their children. Thanks to her husband’s skill and dedication in proving his preference for grown women rather than young girls, she had been deeply asleep. But when her daughter began to cry, Sionell got out of bed and went down the hall to the nursery, where Antalya had succeeded in waking Chayla and Rohannon as well.

  The cause of Talya’s distress was the loss onto the floor of the big green stuffed dragon her grandmother Feylin had given her. Sionell put all to rights while the twins’ nursemaid quieted them down—not an easy task, as Hollis had cautioned when accepting Sionell’s suggestion that the pair would enjoy a brief visit to Tiglath while their parents were at Stronghold. “They have a tendency to bounce—not just off the beds but all the way to the ceiling,” Hollis had sighed. “And if there wasn’t a ceiling, they’d fly.”

  Bouncing restrained for the night, Sionell shut the nursery door behind her and smiled. Tallain, she was morally certain, hadn’t woken up—probably hadn’t even moved. He’d earned his rest tonight. The smile became a grin as she reflected that she had, too. Retracing the steps to their chambers, she glanced down the long hallway to where the guard stood outside Meiglan’s rooms. Tomorrow she would start a campaign to put a little spine into the girl. And if Miyon regretted losing the cringing object of his mockery, too bad for Miyon.

  Sionell was about to discard her bedrobe onto a chair in the anteroom when she heard another cry. Not a child this time—an adult. Struggling back into the robe, she hurried down the hall, following a second high-pitched scream. She thought she glimpsed two shadows descending the stairs, but suddenly there were so many other people around that she forgot about them. Meiglan, her cloud of golden hair in wild tangles, was the center of attention and the source of the screams—which were abruptly silenced as her maidservant shook her. She gasped for breath, trembling from head to foot.

  Riyan, whose room was two doors down from Meiglan’s, got to her first. “Easy now, my lady—that’s it, calm yourself. Shh. It’s all right.” He patted her shoulder and smiled reassuringly—and Sionell noted wryly that he couldn’t quite keep his eyes off the slender curves half-visible through a misty silk nightdress. “Nothing to be afraid of, Lady Meiglan, nothing at all.”

  The little knot of people untied for Sionell. But before she could take charge, Rialt stepped forward and said, “If I may, my lady?” He dismissed the extraneous servants and guards with a glance, told the maid to fetch mulled wine, and shepherded Meiglan through the antechamber door. Sionell traded glances with Riyan, whose shoulders lifted in bewilderment.

  They, and Meiglan’s assigned guard, followed Rialt. “What happened?” Sionell asked.

  “She flung open the door, my lady, screaming that there was someone in her room. A man.”

  “Impossible,” Sionell stated.

  The guard nodded his gratitude for her trust in him. “Exactly, my lady. Even if someone had gotten past me, her other servant, the older one, was inside. She would have called out.”

  “Hmm.” Sionell peeked around the inner door, seeing that Rialt had gotten Meiglan propped on pillows with brisk, sympathetic efficiency and was lighting candles. Suddenly a whole branch of them sprang to life and the girl caught her breath in fright. Rialt merely glanced around, brows arching mildly.

  “Riyan,” Sionell chided in disgust.

  “Saves time,” he told her with a shrug.

  And gets you a better look at her in that flimsy little scrap of silk, she thought, amused. “Go back to bed. I’ll see what’s troubling her.”

  “I’ll stay if you like—”

  “No, you’d like,” she responded, unable to resist teasing him. He grinned, unrepentant. “Oh, get out of here,” she added, giving him a push.

  A little while later she had calmed M
eiglan down enough to get some speech out of her—not that it made much sense. Sitting beside her, Sionell pressed her chilled fingers and smiled bracingly; the second time tonight she had soothed a scared child.

  “It was just a dream, my dear.”

  “I’m sorry, my lady—I didn’t mean to cause any trouble! But please don’t tell my father!”

  “Don’t worry about anything. It’s quite all right.”

  The pallid face with its huge, liquid dark eyes was nearly lost in the unruly mass of curls. “There was a man here, my lady—I swear it.”

  “Meiglan—”

  “There was! You have to believe me!”

  Sionell humored her. “Did you see him clearly enough to identify him?” A small, tense nod. “Then you must tell me, so he can be found and punished. Tell me exactly what happened and what you saw.”

  Meiglan nodded again like a good little girl. “I couldn’t sleep—the room is beautiful, my lady, and the bed is very comfortable, it isn’t that—”

  “At times we all have trouble sleeping,” Sionell said, hiding her impatience with the frantic apology. “Go on.”

  “I—I went to the kitchens, the guard showed me where, and had hot taze and cakes. Thanys found me and brought me back upstairs, and Mireva stayed in the outer room when I went back to bed. I was almost asleep but—but something woke me up and I opened my eyes and he was standing right there—”

  Meiglan’s eyes glazed with fear and fixed on a point at the foot of the bed. Sionell squeezed her hand reassuringly. “What did he look like?”

  “He—he was tall and slim, with blond hair. I think his eyes were blue.”

  Most Desert dwellers were as dark as the Fironese, though without the tip-tilted eyes characteristic of that princedom. Redheads like Sionell and her mother cropped up occasionally, even in bloodlines unmixed with outsiders, but true blonds were extremely rare. There were perhaps five fair-haired men in all Tiglath besides Tallain himself—and Sionell knew that none of them had been in Meiglan’s bedchamber. It had been a dream.