Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire

by Melanie Rawn

  “Which will properly warn him—and impress on him that the laws of the High Prince are superior to those of any other princedom and even of Goddess Keep.”

  Rohan gaped at her. “How can you know what I’m going to do when I’ve barely started to work it out myself?”

  She smiled. “I know you, azhrei. Now come to bed.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Swalekeep: 26 Spring

  Princess Chiana dismissed her maids with a gesture, barely waiting for the doors to click shut behind them before plunging into the depths of her huge standing wardrobe. A few moments later she emerged gleefully with garments clutched in her hands. Shucking out of her bedrobe and nightdress, she made quick work of buttons and laces and stood before three angled mirrors to judge the effect.

  Chiana smiled. She had kept her figure after her pregnancies and at almost thirty had a waist like a young girl’s, shown off to excellent advantage by a snug tunic and tight belt. Her hips curved sleekly in leather breeches that clung like a second skin. The clothes were basically for riding, but there was a marked difference: the light green tunic was cut like a soldier’s and across the breast leaped the black deer of Meadowlord, antlers lifted like swords.

  At the bottom of a clothespress in the corner was the final piece of the ensemble. Chiana struggled into it, acting as her own squire as she fastened silver buckles. At last the stiffened leather was secure. She struck a martial pose and grinned at her reflection. With boots rising to mid-thigh and carnelian-studded body armor covering her chest and spine, she was the perfect picture of the warrior-princess.

  Thought of her rank sent her to another wardrobe, where she removed a locked coffer. The helm inside was also of stiffened leather braced with gold. Around the brow circled a wide band of gold, which above the nosepiece swirled up into another running stag, its eyes and antlers set with more carnelians. It was difficult to get all her heavy auburn hair hidden beneath the helm, but she managed. When she strutted before the three mirrors again, she laughed out loud.

  All she needed was to mount the Kadari mare purchased at the last Rialla, a magnificent horse black from nose to tail with white feathering at hooves and ears, and her presentation would be complete. But it was to be no idle masquerade for amusement. Tomorrow she would ride out wearing her warrior’s armor in earnest, and by the end of spring Castle Crag and all of Princemarch would be hers.

  Troops waited in secret for her arrival. Strategically scattered along the border, they had been assembling slowly, stealthily, since the New Year Holiday. They waited for her to lead them up to Rezeld Manor, where Lord Morlen had also assembled all those who owed him service. He had been a real find—the work of the red-haired steward Mirris, who was in Cunaxa arranging another army. Morlen and his family had succeeded for years in pretending poverty to hide their considerable resources. But he had been unable to fool High Prince Rohan, who had claimed his share of Rezeld’s bounty, mainly in stone used to build Dragon’s Rest. Morlen had conceived a loathing for his princes that made him easy to convince when Minis had put forth certain proposals. And now the man waited with more than three hundred soldiers at Rezeld for Chiana to lead them against Prince Pol’s gorgeous new palace.

  The number of troops Morlen was able to assemble had been a shock to him as well as to Chiana, until Mirris had explained that there were many in the Veresch who wished a prince of Roelstra’s blood back at Castle Crag. Chiana laughed again as she remembered Mirris’ explanation.

  “Their loyalty is to those who ruled them for five generations. Of course they will flock to your grace’s banner—the noblest of the late High Prince’s daughters. And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if along the way from Dragon’s Rest to Castle Crag, hundreds more joined your grace’s armies.”

  The notion was intoxicating. Mirris himself had been a find of no small importance. Chiana turned a straight chair around before her favorite mirror, straddling the chair as if it was her black horse. Sunlight glinted off the gold and carnelians scattered around her armor and helm. As she nodded graciously to her imagined armies, the stag at her brow seemed eager to vault mountains.

  “Mama! Mama!”

  Furious, she jumped out of the chair as the chamber door swung open. Who had given Rinhoel permission to come in here? But when had he ever waited for permission to do anything? Her anger evaporated and she reveled in the child’s beauty. Not even Ianthe’s sons could have been so like their grandsire. Rinhoel was tall for being not quite seven winters old, lanky but strong. His hair was night-black, his eyes pure green without a hint of hazel; his kinship to Roelstra was as obvious in his looks as it was every time he opened his mouth. She caught him in her arms and he reached for the stag on her helm.

  “No, greedy one, don’t ruin Mama’s armor!” She set him down hastily and went to kick the door shut. “Have you escaped your squires and tutors again?”

  “They wanted me to read boring things,” he informed her. “I don’t need to read at all, Mama. I hate it and I’m a prince and people will read to me when I order them!”

  “True,” she admitted, taking off the helm to let her hair cascade down her back. “But often there are messages you won’t want anyone to know about. That’s why you must learn to read well and quickly, my own. You wouldn’t want to depend on someone else to read to you what must be kept secret.” She had a sudden idea, and, being a mother intensely concerned with her son’s education, she acted on it at once. Turning the straight chair around again, she said, “Rinhoel, shall I tell you a secret?”

  “Yes! Tell me now!”

  He claimed the hand she held out to him and suffered himself to be lifted onto her lap. She watched their reflections in the mirror. “Mama is going away tomorrow for a little while.”

  “Where?” he demanded. “To battle? Is that why you’re dressed like a soldier? I want to come!”

  “Not yet, darling. But very soon. While I’m gone, I’ll send you letters every day and tell you everything that’s happening. You wouldn’t want anyone else to read them, would you?”

  “They’ll be secret?”

  “Of course. From everyone but us. Between a princess and her princely son there are no secrets.” It was amazing how much pleasure the titles still brought her.

  “But you weren’t going to tell me you were going.”

  “I would have this evening if you hadn’t burst in on me all unmannerly.” She squeezed him. “Look in the mirror, Rinhoel. Can you see yourself wearing this same kind of armor, riding a beautiful big horse into Castle Crag?”

  “I don’t want Castle Crag, I want Dragon’s Rest.”

  Chiana told herself that naturally a little boy would desire a place he had seen rather than one he had not. Her official excuse for bringing him with her to the last Rialla had been that she could not bear to be parted from him. True enough. But it was another secret between them, solemnly sworn even though he had been only four years old, that she had shown him the palace halls and gardens whispering of the day Dragon’s Rest would be his along with the rest of Princemarch.

  “You will certainly own it soon. But remember that Castle Crag belonged to our ancestors for many generations, and we’ll rule from there—the way your grandsire did and his grandsire before him.”

  “I’m not supposed to tell Father about this, am I?” he asked shrewdly.

  “It’ll be our secret, Rinhoel. Think how much fun it will be to receive my letters and know things that no one else does! So you must practice your reading all the time, my darling. Do you understand?”

  “I’m not a baby.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re my prince, aren’t you? And together we’ll ride into Castle Crag—after we take Dragon’s Rest, of course.”

  Rinhoel considered, then nodded acquiescence. He hopped off her lap and recovered the discarded helm. Chiana watched in delight as he put it on and marched back to her, wielding an imaginary sword.

  “And that to Prince Pol and all Sunrunners!” he cried,
thrusting toward her heart.

  She applauded and together they laughed.

  Swalekeep—like every other princely seat, all the major and a good many of the minor holdings—had a resident faradhi. But unlike most court Sunrunners, Vamanis usually had very little to do. There were other places where his kind were tolerated, and some where they were openly suspected. But no Sunrunner was so thoroughly ignored as Vamanis. He saw their graces of Meadowlord only when a message had come in from elsewhere, for tradition dictated that the Sunrunner speak directly to those he served. Prince Halian and Princess Chiana never used him for communication with other princes or with their own athr’im—which to Vamanis’ way of thinking was surpassingly stupid. Why send couriers when one had a Sunrunner at hand? But they obviously did not trust him. Part of faradhi ethic was to respect the privacy of such communication no matter what it might be—although he had to admit that under young Lord Andry, that tradition was becoming as flexible as many others. There were things Vamanis swore Lord Andry could have known only because a court Sunrunner had broken the oath of secrecy. Vamanis’ own training had been under Lady Andrade, and she had been a stickler for tradition. But convincing those at Swalekeep of his honor had proved impossible. Especially forbidden him was the usual Sunrunner duty of helping instruct the children of the house. So he rarely had anything to do.

  Fortunately, he had other interests and resources. His mother had been a silversmith, his father a cook in their home city of Einar, and Vamanis exercised both talents when he wasn’t exploring the countryside, idly courting several pretty women, reading, or conversing on sunlight with friends who lived anywhere from Snowcoves to Dorval. It was a pleasant life all in all, devoted to private pursuits. But after three years it was beginning to bore him. He had just completed his twenty-eighth winter, and his rings made him one of the elite of his world. There were many other things he could do with his life and he often felt as if his gifts were starting to rust. This summer he intended to petition Lord Andry for another posting, and let someone else enjoy this cushiony existence for a few years.

  Vamanis was in the kitchens conferring with the pastry cook about a delicacy for that evening’s meal when an abrupt message on the sunlight streaming through an open window caught his mind. In her characteristically brief, dignified, but friendly fashion, the High Princess requested that he inform Lord Barig of Gilad that the High Prince earnestly desired his presence at Stronghold. Vamanis paused an instant to savor the elegant pattern of Sioned’s colors; he had seldom been touched by them, and her mastery and her glow were a rare treat. After promising to convey the request, he tendered his respects and sighed faintly with the loss of her. Now, there was a woman and then some, he told himself as he went to find Lord Barig.

  Duty required that he inform Princess Chiana first. Thus he went upstairs and asked to be admitted to her private chambers. One of her squires arrogantly demanded to know his purpose. Vamanis was tempted to read the boy a lecture on the respect due Sunrunners, but then decided this was too minor a matter to stand on ceremony he hadn’t much use for anyway. So he merely smiled and waited patiently while the squire took the request to his mistress.

  Chiana saw him alone. She wore one of her plainer gowns and only a few of the diamonds she so adored and that her husband lavished on her. Vamanis noted that she had on a bracelet of twisting silver wires he had fashioned for her during his first year at Swalekeep, when he had still entertained hopes of being a real court Sunrunner instead of an ignored lackey.

  “Your grace honors me,” he said with a bow.

  She saw the direction of his gaze. “Oh—you mean the bracelet,” she replied, and he was reminded that she could be a surpassingly beautiful woman when she chose to smile. “Actually, I was about to send for you, Vamanis. But first tell me your news.”

  He did so, watched her slight frown, and then asked, “How may I be of service to your grace?”

  “Service? Oh. I would have asked one of the resident crafters, but I was going through my jewels and was reminded how clever and delicate your work is. The frame of my mirror is ready to break. Can you fix it for me?”

  If he had hoped for some faradhi task, he did not show his disappointment. He advanced to the mirror, admiring the workmanship. Somehow a piece of silver had been bent near to breaking, a section of vine that twisted down the left-hand side.

  “Not too serious, your grace,” he reported. “I’ll have to remove this bit here to reshape it, then reattach the vine.”

  “But it can be repaired?”

  “Of course.” At least it would give him something to do. “I’ll need my tools. With your grace’s permission, I’ll go fetch them and—”

  Suddenly he could not speak, not even to cry out. It was as if something had trapped him inside his own skull and deprived him of all will and volition. He could see the princess in the mirror, her diamonds striking light like glass shards into his eyes. He could not even blink.

  A word left his mouth, resonant and complex, a sound he could not have remembered or duplicated. Chiana froze instantly. And Vamanis suddenly knew what was being done to him. With him.

  “Is everything prepared?” he heard his own voice ask.

  “Everything,” the princess answered.

  “Everything in secrecy?”

  “Everything,” she repeated.

  “Excellent. You have done well, Chiana, and soon you will have your heart’s desire.” Vamanis stared at the princess in the mirror.

  “Soon,” she said, eyes alight with eagerness.

  “Remember none of this, as you remember nothing of our conversations. But you will remember to take the mirror with you.”

  “I will remember about the mirror.”

  A spasm took hold of his throat like a strangling fist. His eyes were abruptly blind, his senses opaque. Part of his mind screamed for help.

  And a voice answered.

  Heard of this technique, have you, Sunrunner? Using another’s eyes and ears to observe is a faradhi trick not taught to many. But I have actually used your voice. Impressive, don’t you think?

  Oh, Goddess—the mirror—

  Of course. A fortuitous little piece of damage to the frame, wasn’t it? The voice, rich and gloating, laughed inside his mind. You Sunrunners know certain things but by no means all. I see your face as clearly as you do, for I am indeed using your eyes. But you’re looking flushed, Sunrunner. Feeling feverish and ill, aren’t you? I think you are becoming very sick, and will remain so. And in your sickness you will not remember this as anything other than a fever dream.

  Monster! he screamed.

  I? You faradh’im are the monsters, perverting ancient knowledge, turning it soft and bloodless! Although I’ll admit that this Lord Andry you don’t entirely approve of has some interesting notions about power. You may rest easy, Sunrunner. He won’t live long enough to carry them through. Return to your chamber now—you’re feeling very, very ill, aren’t you? You need to be alone and in the dark. The light hurts your eyes. You must stay out of the sunlight.

  Vamanis staggered against the mirror, toppling it and most of the princess’ brushes and jars of makeup and scent. Heat raged through his whole body, a fever that set his very bones ablaze. Chiana’s angry cry split his head open and he collapsed onto the fallen mirror.

  “Get up! What’s wrong with you?” The princess kicked him to one side and he groaned. “Clumsy idiot! You could have broken my mirror!”

  He wasn’t sure why, but he knew that the mirror could not remain whole. He reached for it, light reflecting off his rings like knives into his eyes as he fisted his hand.

  Chiana’s foot descended on his wrist. His eyes teared with frustration and failure, his fingers uncurling helplessly as the fever drowned him in darkness.

  Chiana paced impatiently as her squire righted the mirror and assessed the damage. Only that one silver vine had needed mending before—she couldn’t quite recall how it had been bent, but that hardly mattered; now
the complex knotwork at the top had come loose. That lout of a Sunrunner would have much to answer for when he recovered from his sudden and mysterious illness. She had had him removed to his own chamber.

  “Well?” she snapped.

  “Intact, your grace, but for this bit here. I think it can be repaired by tomorrow evening, your grace.”

  “I won’t be deprived of my favorite mirror for even half that long. Fix it tonight. I don’t care who you have to wake up to get the work done!”

  “Yes, your grace. At once.” The squire departed, the mirror borne carefully in his arms.

  Chiana paced some more, fretting. She wanted that mirror with her when she left tomorrow morning. No need to live like a complete barbarian in the field—and when she occupied Dragon’s Rest, it would be satisfying to put something of her own in Prince Pol’s private suite.

  “Chiana? What’s the trouble here?”

  She spun around as her husband entered the chamber. “A slight accident. Nothing to be alarmed about. But Vamanis damaged my beautiful mirror!”

  “I’m sure it can be mended.” Halian gestured and the squire bowed himself out. “The master of horse tells me you’ve ordered that Kadari mare saddled early tomorrow. Would you like some company?”

  “How sweet of you, darling,” she purred. “But you know how fond I’ve grown of a solitary ride now and then. It clears my head of all the wretched politics.”

  Duties he had no talent for, and that would have been utterly neglected if not for her. After years of wishing his aged father dead and burned, Halian had played at being prince for a little while and then gladly shoved the burdens onto her. That she had been more than willing to shoulder them did not counter her disgust at his laziness. There was much to be said for a prince’s early death; it allowed a son to rule while still young and vigorous, before he had grown too accustomed to constant leisure and lack of power.

  During his years of waiting for Clutha to die, Halian had become fond of horses, drink, his illegitimate daughters by a long-dead mistress, and some discreet wenching now and then. Had it been anything other than discreet, Chiana would have dealt with the women as her mother Lady Palila had done with her father’s other mistresses. It was his total indifference to the wonderful son she had given him that really rankled, but she had learned to shrug it off. Though his dedication to his pleasures left her free to rule as she pleased, any respect she had ever had for him was gone. She had craved power all her life; Halian had lost the desire many years ago. Power was too much work.