Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire

by Melanie Rawn

  “Why change your style now!” Rialt laughed. “Just make sure you don’t get overwhelmed by your own game. And if the girl really is the innocent she appears, this isn’t fair to her.”

  That was the only problem, Pol reflected as he watched Meiglan smile at some remark of Ruala’s. Now, there was a fascinating young woman, he acknowledged, and it was obvious that Riyan thought so, too. But there was something about Meiglan that did attract him, and he was powerless to analyze exactly what it was. Certainly she was beautiful, and in a way vastly different from other women he knew. But though Pol was deeply sensitive to beauty of any kind, from the glory of the Veresch in springtime to the delicate grace of Fironese crystal, he had never been a slave to his senses. Her music bewitched him, but music always had. He decided that what intrigued him was the uncertainty. Was she truly as she seemed, or did her vulnerability mask a ruthless mind?

  He would find out eventually. But for the present he was sure of two things. First, she represented danger—either through total knowledge of the way he read Miyon’s plan for marriage and death, or in total innocence that really might enchant him. Second, until he discovered which it was, he must conduct most of his act out of her sight and hearing. If she was conversant with Miyon’s aims, it would not do for her to think she was succeeding; if she was not, he had no wish to cause her pain. His conversations with Feylin and Riyan that day would be duly reported to his parents; just sitting beside her would work as well as if he openly flirted with her. Come to think of it, he mused, she probably didn’t know how to flirt.

  It worried him a little that he was deliberately fooling those who loved him. But he had little choice. And his father had done the same thing, after all. Still, even though he had taken a page from Rohan’s book, he was very different from his father. Rohan had learned how to wait—indeed, preferred to wait while things developed on their own. Usually it worked for him; sometimes it did not. But Pol was not made that way. He had to do something, could not merely allow things to happen to himself or others. He had to influence events, turn them in directions he wanted them to go. He supposed in time he would discover the kind of patience his father had. But for now. . . .

  After the meal some of the group mounted up once more to ride into Rivenrock Canyon. Pol chuckled under his breath as he saw Riyan’s attempts to gain Ruala’s sole companionship foiled by the twins. They had taken a liking to her and insisted she ride with them—graciously allowing Riyan to join them. Maarken and Hollis chose to linger in the pavilion for a comfortable chat with Andry and Sionell. Meiglan, however, came along. Whether she wanted to or had been told to was open to speculation.

  Feylin played tour guide as they rode into the canyon. Nialdan, Andry’s other faradhi companion, listened in abject wonder as Feylin described the cycle of dragon mating: first the devouring of bittersweet plants, then the cliff-dance and the sand-dance during which the females selected their mates.

  “Afterward, the she-dragon walls up her eggs to bake through the summer. When the little beasts hatch, they gobble their weaker siblings to give them the strength to break down the walls. They breathe fire to dry and toughen their wings—and to roast their first meal.”

  Nialdan gulped. “I see,” he said shakily.

  Feylin had a grin and went on remorselessly, “Yes, back when the dragons were using these caves, it was said that when the walls finally came down you could smell broiled dragon meat all the way to Radzyn. Ask Lord Andry sometime. He’ll tell you.”

  The big Sunrunner gave a faint nod, eyes wide.

  “Of course, that’s nothing to the mating stink. The sires give off the most appalling stench. You may be wondering how I know so much,” she added blithely. “Some years ago I had the great good fortune to carve up a dead dragon. Remarkable creatures. Incredible structure to the wings, of course, but the stomach and brain were nearly as interesting, once I’d washed all the blood off.”

  “Indeed, my lady,” Nialdan managed, looking rather pale.

  Pol glanced around and was relieved to find Meiglan out of earshot, riding between Chayla and one of the Cunaxan guards. He turned his horse in their direction and was amused to see the man bow and ride off; none of Miyon’s people got very near him, and had probably been given orders that whenever he approached Meiglan, they were to back away.

  “What do you think of the canyon, my lady?”

  “I—I can imagine the dragons here, my lord, even though I’ve never seen one.”

  “Never?” Chayla exclaimed. “Oh, but you have to! They’re beautiful!”

  “If his grace my father allows it, then perhaps we’ll stay long enough to see them.”

  “Only another few days,” Pol supplied. “They’ll fill the skies with their wings and their challenges to each other. It’s not to be missed.”

  “Can we go look in the caves?” Chayla asked. “Please?”

  “Not today, sweetheart. Didn’t your papa ever tell you what happened to him and his brother when they tried it once? A baby dragon popped out and nearly scared them to death!”

  “And your papa and Sioned scared the dragon away,” she finished. “But there aren’t any dragons here now.”

  “No.” He squinted up at the canyon walls. Darkness gaped here and there, natural caves carved even larger by dragons. They must return here or they would never reproduce in the numbers that would ensure their survival.

  “I wish they’d come back,” Chayla sighed.

  Meiglan regarded her curiously. “Do you remember them so clearly, then? You couldn’t have been very old during the last mating.”

  “Dragons fly over the Desert every year. Oh, you have to stay to see them, Lady Meggie! Pol, tell her she has to stay.”

  He smiled at them. “I’ll do everything in my power to assure it.”

  Rohannon trotted up and challenged his sister to a race—supervised by Riyan and Ruala, so Pol allowed it. When he and Meiglan were alone, he turned to her once more.

  “Chayla called you ‘Meggie’ instead of Meiglan.”

  The girl flushed. “It’s—a nickname, my lord, given by my nurse. Chayla happened on it by accident, I think.”

  “The old word for honey-pine is ‘megna,’ isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “Nobody’s called me that in many years, my lord.”

  “Does your nurse think you’re too old for nicknames now?”

  “She died when I was about Chayla’s age.”

  “And you loved her very much.”

  “Yes,” she said unwillingly, as if admitting to emotion was dangerous.

  Pol was ashamed, but an apology was impossible. He knew without being told that the only love in her short life had been connected to that nurse; Goddess knew, she received none from her father. The fact that she had not mentioned her mother in connection with the tender nickname hinted at no affection from that source, either. Pol realized again how lucky he was in parents as in all else.

  “Shall—shall we join the others, my lord?” Meiglan asked warily.

  The somber expression brought by his thoughts had alarmed her; she looked as if afraid she had said something wrong. But there was nothing he could do to apologize or make amends except give her a reassuring smile.

  He left her in Nialdan’s care and rode with Feylin down the canyon, talking dragons and trying to imagine what it had been like when they used Rivenrock. But there was no feel of dragons here as there was at other cavern complexes.

  The sounds of hoofbeats and laughter rang off the stone as the children raced their ponies. Pol noted that Riyan had finally managed to separate Ruala from the others, and grinned to himself; the sooner the better, indeed. Elktrap was a formidable dowry. Ostvel would be pleased. But Riyan might get a little ragged around the edges, supervising Skybowl, Elktrap, and Feruche—

  Suddenly someone screamed, and Feylin lurched forward in her saddle as another horse’s shoulder plowed into her own mount’s hindquarters. Feylin’s mare kicked back instinctively, but the second
horse was already galloping back down the canyon. Pol’s heart stopped for an instant as he saw that the rider wore cream and orange, and thick golden curls whipped back from her face.

  He swore and dug his heels into Pashoc’s sides. Though Meiglan’s mare was no match for the stallion, she was Radzyn-bred for strength. Panic gave her wings. As the distance between them narrowed too slowly, Pol wondered what could have spooked the usually placid animal to bolt. The reins had escaped the girl’s hands entirely and she had both arms flung around the horse’s neck. If the mare stumbled on the reins and fell—

  He rejected the image of her slight body pitching over the mare’s head to shatter on stony ground. Riding low over Pashoc’s neck, he urged the horse to greater speed. They were out of Rivenrock now, thundering past the gold pavilion out on the dunes. The mare began to tire. At last Pol was able to lean from his saddle and grab one of the dangling reins. Another few moments, and the mare had slowed to a shuddering, exhausted walk.

  Meiglan still had a death grip on the horse. Pol spoke her name several times without response; she clung trembling to the mare’s neck. He stopped both horses, leaped down, and bodily pried Meiglan from her saddle.

  It seemed she didn’t much care what she hung on to, as long as there was something to hold. His ribs nearly cracked with the terrified strength of her arms. He stroked her disordered hair, murmuring wordlessly to soothe her. At length she gave a long, quivering sigh and her muscles relaxed enough so he could breathe freely again.

  “There now,” he said softly. “You’re safe, Meggie. All over now.”

  All at once her head jerked back and two huge brown eyes stared up at him in horror. “You—!” she gasped.

  “Yes, just me. Nothing bruised or broken? You’re quite all right?”

  She stumbled back from him, hands at her mouth, those great eyes even darker in contrast to the golden curls tangled around her face.

  “It was very brave of you not to scream and frighten the mare even more,” he went on, wishing she wouldn’t look at him as if he had grown two heads and a dragon’s tail. “And you’re stronger than you look, to have hung on and not fallen off.” His ribs could attest to that.

  Her hands twisted together and she shivered again.

  “You’re not hurt, are you?” he asked, fairly sure that she was only shaken.

  “I’m sorry!” she blurted out. “I’m sorry! Please believe me, my lord!”

  Pol realized that her slightest transgression, whether her fault or not, was probably punished by her father as if she had purposely planned it to irritate him. And she expected the same harsh words from him.

  So he said nothing at all. Instead he surrounded her gently with his arms. Anger warred with aching tenderness for this frail, frightened girl—and with growing knowledge that this was exactly what he was supposed to feel. The mare’s headlong panic was no accident. But had Meiglan planned it, or her father?

  Eventually she stopped shaking and stepped back. She would not look at him as she whispered, “Please forgive me, my lord.”

  “Don’t be silly,” he said, and cursed himself for the quick answer when she flinched. “I only meant it wasn’t your fault the mare bolted. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  She met his gaze again. “You won’t—you won’t tell my father?”

  He looked down into the big brown eyes, trying to decide if their anguished entreaty was honesty or artifice. And suddenly he was ashamed that he had ever suspected her at all. Meiglan was innocent. She must be. However it had been done, her life had been at stake in this little plot. Would it have pleased Miyon, Pol thought furiously, if the girl had died in pursuit of him?

  “I won’t tell your father anything except that you were very brave.”

  “Oh, thank you, my lord,” she breathed, the passionate gratitude in her eyes confirming her innocence. Not even the surety that this fierce instinct to protect had been planned for him could keep him from feeling it. He told himself he would feel the same toward anyone so utterly without defenses.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Stronghold: 33 Spring

  Rohan was irked by Andry’s absence from the audience granted Lord Barig and the two Giladan lawyers, but he was compelled to admire his nephew’s tactics. By riding off to Rivenrock today he showed his contempt for Prince Cabar’s claim to jurisdiction over the Sunrunner—while making sure he would know exactly what was said by deputizing Oclel to sit in. The presence of a mere faradhi instead of the Lord of Goddess Keep was an insult that Barig noted with a glower to which Oclel responded with a bland stare. Rohan hid his own annoyance and endured the first portion of the audience with admirable patience, all the while wishing he could be out riding in the fresh air. They sat in the Summer Room, named by Sionell years ago for tapestries depicting the Desert in that season; the hangings were a constant reminder of beauty Rohan would much rather have enjoyed in person rather than stitched in bright wool.

  Oclel played his part to perfection. He listened to Barig’s case and the lawyers’ amplifications, pleasant face below a shock of fair hair revealing nothing. Rohan’s speculative gaze returned to him many times as he wondered what Andry had instructed him to say and when he was supposed to say it. At last the lawyers finished presentations of precedent nicely calculated to appeal to Rohan’s sense of tradition, and Barig summed up.

  “It is therefore our position, your grace, that this person Gevlia, originally from Isel, by acting as a physician rather than as a Sunrunner, is punishable by the laws of Gilad. These have been formulated through hundreds of years by a score of noble princes and most recently by his grace my cousin Prince Cabar, and we of Gilad bless his wise rule over us and trust that it will continue for many long years to come.”

  Rohan drew breath to thank Barig for his words, but Oclel beat him to it.

  “My lord,” he said to Barig, “as the wisdom and the years granted to his grace of Gilad are Goddess-given, your gratitude might be more properly expressed to her.”

  Mildly said, severely meant. Rohan saw Sioned regard Oclel with renewed interest. The lawyers puffed up indignantly, but Barig was surprisingly undisturbed.

  “I have noted,” he said thoughtfully, “that the name and graces of the Goddess are emphasized more and more often these days.”

  “Appropriately so, my lord,” Oclel replied.

  “Ostentatiously so,” Barig riposted. “Last night in the Great Hall, for example. I do not know how things are done at Goddess Keep, where no doubt the Goddess spends more time than she does at other places. But at his grace’s palace of Medawari we do not make a ritual of gratitude for food and drink we and not she worked to produce.”

  Sioned interposed, “I’m sure that proper thanks are given to the Goddess for the richness of Gilad, just as is done here in the Desert—where this year we have been especially blessed.”

  “Agriculturally speaking, your grace,” Barig observed smoothly, “the rain produced the flowers. If anyone ought to be thanked, surely it is the Father of Storms—who also drowned and thereby ruined a goodly portion of everyone’s fields and herds last winter. Tell me,” he added, turning to Oclel, “did he and the Goddess have a lover’s quarrel, do you think?”

  Oclel’s brows arched. “We can scarcely comprehend their natures, my lord. They certainly should not be mocked!”

  “I’m sure he did not mean to do so.” Sioned spoke with steel beneath the silk of her voice. “I think Lord Barig is simply unaccustomed to the thanksgiving used at Goddess Keep, where naturally things are more formal than elsewhere. I found Lord Andry’s words quite lovely.”

  “As did we all,” Barig said hastily, hearing the warning in her tone.

  Oclel’s response was honeyed. “Then your lordship can be relied on to institute similar thanksgiving at Medawari in future. It would certainly find favor with the Goddess.”

  Not to mention with Andry, Rohan thought. “I’m sure Lord Barig will discuss it with his grace of Gilad,” he said alou
d. “Interesting as this is, I suggest that we return to the matter at hand.” His tone indicated that they had better, or else. Both men nodded and Rohan continued, “I’m most interested by your lordship’s analysis of Prince Cabar’s position. I’m confident that as Lord Andry’s representative, Oclel would be equally eloquent.” Thus he neatly deprived the Sunrunner of any chance for further speechifying—and brought a wisp of a grin to Barig’s face. Rohan didn’t even have to glance at Sioned for her to start weaving with the threads he’d given her.

  “The way I understand things,” she said, “not the guilt but the trial and punishment of this unfortunate woman is in dispute. Andry believes it his right as Lord of Goddess Keep and Cabar believes it his right as ruler of Gilad. But has anyone considered the rights of this Sunrunner?”

  They stared at her. Rohan leaned back in his chair and let his lids droop slightly as he listened and watched. How he loved the patterns of her mind. . . .

  “Has anybody even talked to her? Found out what her side of this is?”

  “She has been questioned, your grace,” Barig began.

  “Questioned? Do you mean ‘interrogated,’ my lord? Did anyone ever ask her why she agreed to treat Master Thacri in the first place? Surely she is horrified that she made a mistake.”

  “If you’ll forgive me, your grace,” Barig said stiffly, “ ‘sorry’ will not feed Master Thacri’s wife and children.”

  Oclel said, “No one ever claimed that it would, my lord. It seems to me that the question is not whether she was negligent in causing this man’s death, but whether he would have died anyway. She was the only physician available. She attempted to heal him, as was her duty as a Sunrunner sworn to give help when and where needed.”