Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire

by Melanie Rawn

  “As you like, my love.” He gave her an idle caress. “What was Vamanis doing in here?”

  She had almost forgotten the Sunrunner’s news. “The High Prince wants Barig at Stronghold. One can guess why.” Even Halian would be able to figure that one out. “Lord Andry will have gone there after his stay at Feruche. Do you think they’ll decide about this stupid Sunrunner there, or put it off until the Rialla?”

  “Whichever, it really doesn’t concern us.”

  She had not quite given up exasperation at his obtuseness. Would he never understand that everything that occurred in all the princedoms concerned them? But she had something else on her mind now, a possibility that had not previously occurred to her. Barig’s cousin Prince Cabar disliked and distrusted the Desert and the Sunrunners; if Barig could be brought to support her in exchange for her support against Andry, then he might very well threaten Rohan with the Giladan armies in support of her claim to Princemarch. And with Gilad would come Grib. Cunaxa was already assured.

  Could she convince Barig to her cause in a single evening?

  Perhaps. Perhaps. At least she could hint at remarkable doings and suggest that he be ready to advise his prince in her favor. He was not a stupid man; he would comprehend that she intended to move.

  She gave Halian a bright smile. “Of course it has nothing to do with us, dearest. Nothing at all.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Stronghold: 35 Spring

  Feylin, Lady of Remagev and counter of dragons, loathed crowds. The entire population of Stronghold stood waiting in the hot sun, for Rohan had ordered up princely honors for Miyon’s arrival from Tiglath. Not because the Cunaxan expected it, though he would—or deserved it, for he didn’t—but because such display would be an unmistakable reminder to a man lacking in subtlety. Only a moron would fail to be impressed by the sight of the castle guard, wearing battle blue and harness, lining a pathway all the way through the tunnel into the main courtyard. Rohan’s family and vassals, arranged in strict order of precedence on the main steps, were impressive in and of themselves.

  The Lord and Lady of Remagev were of minor importance in terms of prestige, though few were closer personally to the High Prince. Walvis had been Rohan’s squire and had, in fact, know him longer than Sioned had. But Remagev, once a holding in possession of Rohan’s cousin who had died without heirs, was technically lower in rank than Tuath Castle or Faolain Lowland or Whitecliff, and certainly far below the crown jewel that was Radzyn. But though Walvis and Feylin had as little use for the protocol of position as their prince, standing on the fringes of the highborn assembly afforded a much better view. They could watch everything without being noticed, unlike Chay and Maarken and their wives, who were front and center and themselves the objects of many sharp eyes.

  Feylin shifted her shoulder beneath the deep blue silk of her formal tunic. It was hot and she regretted the layers of clothing necessary for this absurd welcome as much as she begrudged the time it took away from her studies. When the dragon horn sounded, she was mentally reviewing statistics that had come in through Sunrunner means only that morning. The count of dragons this year was seventeen sires, eighty-five females, and sixty-three immature dragons not yet old enough for mating. Those numbers had held more or less steady for three cycles, reassuring her that the population had stabilized. But it was still dangerously low. And disaster had happened at Feruche two years ago, when five caves had collapsed. A total of only thirty-six caverns were now available there and near Skybowl—which meant that forty-nine of the females would die.

  Feylin had worried at the problem until her wits ached, but there was only one solution: persuade the dragons back to Rivenrock with its one hundred seven lovely, spacious, perfect caves, unused since the Plague. Dragons had died by the hundreds then at Rivenrock and had shunned the place ever since. But if they did not return there or find other caves, their numbers would not increase to a level Feylin considered safe.

  If they would only use Rivenrock, all eighty-five females would produce at least two and, with very good luck, four hatchlings each to fly from the caves. Call it three apiece, which would make it—

  “Stop that,” her husband whispered in her ear, startling her.

  “Stop what? I wasn’t doing anything.”

  “You’re counting dragons on your fingers again.” He tugged playfully at the dark red braid trailing down her back. “I’m willing to put up with your maps and anatomy diagrams at meals and even your muttered calculations while we’re in bed—”

  “I never!” Feylin exclaimed.

  “You do so. As your sweet-natured, long-suffering, adoring husband, I’ll endure your dragons most of the time, but the least you can do is pay attention to the arrival of your own children.” He grinned down at her.

  Feylin glanced around. The chamberlain was calling out Miyon’s titles and all eyes were fixed on the gates, so she felt safe enough in giving Walvis her sweetest smile—and an elbow to the ribs. “That for your sweet nature!”

  He grunted with the impact, a sound lost in the shouts and cries that greeted Miyon’s entrance. Feylin forgot dragons in the satisfaction of knowing that the people of Stronghold gave not a damn about the Cunaxan prince; they were welcoming Tallain, Riyan, Maarken’s two children, and her own Sionell and Jahnavi.

  She evaluated the familiar faces quickly. Tallain was wary beneath the bland facade which he did even better than Rohan, from whom he had learned it. Sionell was serene, but there was a strained look around her eyes. Riyan’s tension showed only in his tight grip on the reins. Jahnavi was poised, alert, but innocent of the undercurrents disturbing the others. Grace notes were provided by Chayla and Rohannon—riding without lead reins, Feylin noted approvingly—who bounced excitedly on their ponies at being part of this grown-up spectacle. She saw Hollis direct a quelling look at the children and smiled when Chayla straightened up and kicked her brother into proper decorum that lasted all of two paces.

  Miyon’s expression was not as easy to read. He nodded amiably enough to the crowd, but his smile was a mere stretching of his lips and his eyes were black frost. Yet there was a sleek, smug look about him that puzzled Feylin. Rohan and Sioned wore their most charming aspects—a dead giveaway to anyone who knew them well. Fortunately, Miyon did not, and accepted their welcoming smiles as if he were returning in triumph to his own keep.

  Feylin whispered as much to Walvis, who nodded. “He’d certainly like Stronghold for his own. I remember the first time he was here, years ago, he inspected things as if making mental notes on what he’d change when he took possession. Feylin, my love, did you have to poke me so hard?”

  She reached an inconspicuous hand to rub his side. “Sorry. But you will be provoking. Jahnavi’s grown—as usual! And Sionell looks lovely, doesn’t she?”

  “Worried,” he said, blue eyes narrowing.

  “Probably about Talya,” Feylin responded, not believing it. “I wish she wasn’t too young to make the journey from Tiglath.”

  “We’ll go inflict ourselves on them for the summer. But I’m surprised Ell didn’t stay behind with her.”

  “She must have had an excellent reason for coming along.”

  “And you’ll have it out of her before dusk,” Walvis murmured. “Tallain’s a smart boy—you notice there’s a soldier of his for every one of Miyon’s? He’s taking no chance that there’s a Merida in the group.”

  The very mention of the Desert’s enemies sent sparks into Feylin’s eyes. Walvis saw it and tickled her nape with the end of her braid.

  “Settle down and smile,” he advised. “They’ll be up here in a moment, and Jahnavi will think you’re angry with him for not writing more often.”

  “Well, I am.” But she smoothed her expression just the same.

  Rohan and Sioned descended exactly one step to show respect for a fellow prince, spoke formal words of welcome, and gave the traditional wine cup which Feylin wished could have been laced with poison. Pol was duly greeted, the
n Andry. Protocol did not permit the introduction of vassals, not even the powerful Lord of Radzyn Keep, but Feylin almost succeeded in hiding a grin as Miyon recognized her husband. At barely nineteen, Walvis had commanded the Desert forces that had defeated the Merida in 704, and his prowess as a warrior was well known. Twenty-four years had put a little gray into his hair and beard, but had also added mature muscle and not a coinweight of excess flesh. There was a very simple reason for this: Remagev, aside from its fine goats and glass ingots, also produced soldiers trained personally and superbly by Walvis. And Miyon knew it.

  Tallain had mounted the steps behind the Cunaxan prince, Riyan at his side. Sionell and Jahnavi were next, Chayla and Rohannon firmly in hand. But before Feylin and Walvis could greet their own offspring, the twins had broken free and were clambering all over Maarken and Hollis. The strict formality of the occasion was thus happily broken, and even Miyon chuckled.

  It was then that Feylin saw the girl. Wearied by the long ride, looking as fragile as a windblown flower, still she was exquisite. Beneath a soft cap that protected her from the hot spring sun tumbled masses of pale golden hair, each strand a separate curl like spun sunlight. A delicate profile was turned away from the warm and easy welcomes exchanged between friends and family; the girl bit her lip as she was utterly ignored.

  Sionell drew back from her father’s embrace and turned, beckoning the girl up the steps. “This is Lady Meiglan of Gracine Manor. Meiglan, come meet my parents, Lord Walvis and Lady Feylin.”

  “I—I’m honored to meet you, my lord, my lady,” the girl whispered.

  “Welcome to Stronghold, my dear,” Walvis said kindly.

  Feylin pressed the girl’s trembling, gloved hand. Her own Sionell looked as if she could ride another four days without feeling it, but this frail child ought to be tucked up in bed until tomorrow morning. “It’s a long journey through the Desert from Tiglath—you must be exhausted.”

  “I am, a little,” she admitted.

  “You can go upstairs as soon as you’ve met their graces,” Sionell said.

  The girl shrank back, eyes lifting at last. They were velvety brown; with her golden coloring and dark eyes she resembled nothing so much as a terrified fawn. “Oh, no, please—not now, my lady!”

  “Oh, come,” Sionell encouraged with a bracing smile, “whatever you’ve heard about the High Prince’s passion for dragons, he hasn’t yet turned into one!”

  “And neither,” said Pol from behind Meiglan’s shoulder, “have I.”

  The girl turned. Feylin could not see her face, but suddenly she saw Pol as a stranger must: a creature fashioned of sunlight. It glowed on his fair head, lit the planes and angles of his face, glinted off the tiny silver wreaths of Princemarch embroidered around the throat of his violet tunic, was outshone by his quick smile.

  “Here you are at last,” he said to Sionell. “But I’m disappointed. You didn’t bring Talya with you.”

  “I see she managed to enchant you when you met her at Feruche,” Sionell said with a smile. “But she’s much too little for such a long trip, Pol.”

  “You look none the worse for it. Marriage and motherhood suit you perfectly, Ell. You’ve never been prettier.”

  Crumbs from the loaf, Feylin thought, exchanging a glance with Walvis, and was grateful that their daughter had never deluded herself into believing she could make a meal of them.

  Sionell thanked him and gracefully introduced Meiglan. The girl said nothing as Pol bent over her wrist and welcomed her; Feylin kept one eye on him and the other on Sionell, and saw the same absolute self-possession in each. But there was something wrong here. She could sense it in every nerve.

  Pol held Meiglan’s hand between his, leaning over her solicitously. “Allow me to escort you out of this heat.”

  She nodded wordlessly and they went into the cool dimness of the foyer. An instant later Chayla and Rohannon clambered up Pol’s legs, nearly toppling him. Having greeted and been made much of by everyone else, they now claimed their fair share of Pol’s attention. He knelt to hug them, demanding to know what kind of trouble they had caused at Tiglath. Chayla gave an indignant squeal and Rohannon applied to Meiglan for witness that they had behaved perfectly.

  At last the girl smiled. She bent slightly and murmured something Feylin didn’t quite hear. Rohannon told Pol, “See? Lady Meiglan says so. We went to bed on time and we were very good and didn’t bother anybody. Talya was the one who kept waking everybody up—and Lady Meiglan, that night she had her dream.”

  The girl’s cheeks turned scarlet and her whole body stiffened. A frown quirked Sionell’s brows. And the sudden crack of Prince Miyon’s voice through the foyer shocked everyone so much that after his first word, all was silence.

  “Meiglan! Why are you still here? You’re filthy. Go upstairs at once!”

  She cringed back, as white-faced now as she had been crimson a moment before. Chayla and Rohannon actually jumped. Pol stood, a flash of irritation swiftly banished from his eyes with obvious effort. Before he could say anything, Sionell stepped smoothly into the breach.

  “It’s my fault for lingering, your grace. After that long ride the thought of all those stairs is a little daunting.” She distributed smiles all around, then took Meiglan’s arm and drew her toward Rohan and Sioned. The girl stumbled slightly, frozen with terror that made her look even more like a frightened fawn. “May I present Lady Meiglan of Gracine Manor to your graces? And I must apologize again, Prince Miyon, for not allowing you the introduction of your daughter.”

  Rohan and Sioned were too experienced to show any startlement, and calmly made the girl welcome. Pol was younger. For an instant he simply appeared stunned.

  Usually Feylin found people about half as interesting as dragons. But she could add up words and looks as well as statistics, and the sum made little Lady Meiglan very interesting indeed. She saw the girl upstairs and into her chamber with her maid in attendance, then firmly claimed her daughter’s arm and walked her down the long hallway toward her own rooms.

  “Your explanation,” Feylin said. “Now.”

  “You’re not going to like it,” Sionell murmured.

  “I already don’t like it.”

  Sionell shrugged and went to a little alcove overlooking the bustle of the courtyard. The third-floor corridor was deserted but for the guard near the stairs; all the servants were busy fetching and carrying down below. Seating herself on a low wooden bench carved with dragons, she looked up at her mother. “As nearly as I can tell, Miyon has a very interesting plot going.”

  “And that child has something to do with it?”

  Sionell gave a quiet sigh. “She has everything to do with it.”

  When her explanation was over, Feylin gave a low whistle between her teeth. “My, my,” she said. “How did I ever come to have such a clever daughter?”

  Sionell went down early to the Great Hall. The servants, still setting the tables, gave her a few curious glances, and she busied herself with the flowers as an excuse for being there.

  Early evening light shone through the window wall onto silver from Fessenden, crystal from Firon, and delicate ceramic plates from Kierst. All very impressive, Sionell thought sourly. Rohan hadn’t missed a trick.

  Neither had Miyon. Pol already felt sorry for Meiglan—who, when Sionell had visited her briefly a little while ago, was still in partial shock at seeing the man from her dream made real. But Miyon had not reckoned on Sionell, who was determined that Meiglan would not present Pol with a lonely little figure trembling in a corner.

  “I can’t make her clever,” she had explained to her mother, “and I can’t turn her into a sparkling wit. But nobody could look pathetic partnered at dinner or in dancing by Tallain or Maarken or Riyan.”

  She consulted the servants about the seating plan at the high table and was appalled to discover that no order had been given to put Meiglan there.

  “Set another place at once,” she said.

  “But, my l
ady, I’ve had no word from her grace—”

  “With all that her grace has to do, it’s not surprising that it slipped her mind, is it? Please see to the extra place immediately.”

  When the squires arrived—Arlis, Edrel, and her own brother Jahnavi would be serving the high table tonight—she gave specific instructions about who was to be seated where. They blinked a little at her rearrangements, but only Jahnavi drew her aside and leveled their father’s piercing blue eyes on her.

  “I know you, Ell,” he said flatly. “You’re up to something.”

  “Don’t be silly. Nobody thought to seat Meiglan at the high table.”

  He made a face. “Somebody’s heard what a charming dinner partner she is.”

  “And don’t be nasty, either. Or a snob. She can’t help it if she’s shy.”

  “There’s shy—and then there’s boring. All right, all right,” he said hastily as her brows rushed together in a frown. “But I still say it’s a dirty trick to foist her off on Riyan and your own poor husband for the evening.”

  “She knows them well enough to talk to them. And with her father halfway down the table, she might even relax and enjoy herself.”

  “Don’t make any bets. It took her all that time at Tiglath to say six words at meals. And this is Stronghold. I mean, look at the place.”

  Sionell was familiar with its elegance and splendor, but to Meiglan this castle would seem stupendous. Sionell fussed with the flowers, telling herself that at least the girl would not be cowering all alone at one of the lower tables. And with distance between her and her father, at a table populated by people she already knew, Miyon could not possibly humiliate her.