Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire

by Melanie Rawn

  “You’re more tender of their feelings than they are of yours. And it’s not fair. You’re right almost all the time.”

  “Ah, so you’re experienced enough to see that I’ve made mistakes—and impudent enough to throw them in my face!” He laughed more easily this time.

  “Oh, there haven’t been that many,” Pol reassured him, grinning. “But it’s a little daunting, you know. And another reason I wouldn’t mind at all if you lived forever. You’re going to be difficult to follow.”

  “Did I ever tell you I felt the same about my own father?”

  “But you two were so different from each other. You always knew you couldn’t be the kind of prince he was, so you never tried to live up to what he was. I’ve always known that to be like you is the best ambition I could have.”

  Rohan was absurdly flattered. “Just don’t ever start believing that you’re always right, Pol. I haven’t been—as you so ungraciously pointed out! And you won’t be, either. Listen to the other princes. Know what their prejudices are, where their self-interest lies. Don’t rule them—guide them. If you can’t present an issue in ways that satisfy them, then you’re probably acting in your own favor. And they’ll scent it as quickly as a hungry dragon does fresh game.”

  He shifted in his chair and frowned. “Along the way something happened that I never intended. Roelstra projected power through his personality and the art of the well-timed whim—and the equally well-timed art of causing fights that only the High Prince could settle. He didn’t care much about the thoughts of ordinary folk. But what I’ve done touches people’s lives. And now they look to me to effect changes—with my name on them. So it seems I have more power and use it more often than is true.”

  “As long as the work gets done, what does that matter?”

  “It matters a great deal. A jealous prince—Cabar is a prime example—is a dangerous one. He can make trouble. I took the decision about this Sunrunner out of his hands. He’ll see that as a threat to his power. Wouldn’t you?”

  “If I was the suspicious type, certainly.” Pol paused for a moment. “The new school will make it easier for Cabar to swallow.”

  “But not for the others. At the Rialla this summer I intend to order each prince to contribute at least two physicians for the teaching staff. The benefits won’t become clear for some time, just as with the scriptorium. But this time I intend to have someone else’s name associated with it—yours, if you’re not careful!”

  “Mother’s!” Pol laughed. “She was the one who thought of putting it in Gilad to soothe Cabar.”

  “Not a bad idea, but she’d never agree. Besides, it wouldn’t do us much good. Everybody knows at least half of my best ideas were hers to begin with. And that when I use ‘we,’ I mean the two of us.” Rohan hoped Pol would consider the advantages of having a wife who shared his work as well as his bed. From what Rohan had seen of Meiglan, she was hardly the type. Yet it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps Pol didn’t want or need that kind of woman.

  When Pol spoke, it was of filial and not marital relationships. “When I was little I used to get into all sorts of trouble just to get you and Mother away from your work—”

  “You think I need reminding?” Rohan chuckled. “After you left for Graypearl we’d get a whole season’s work done in a single day—and then sit staring at each other, cursing the quiet.”

  Pol smiled. “I guess I did demand a lot of attention. And you always gave it to me. But when you and Mother disappeared into your study, I wanted to be there, too. Have you talk to me the way you talked to each other, about important things. Oh, I was far too young to understand any of it, but—do you know what I mean?”

  “My father kept me wrapped in silk until I was eighteen years old. I do understand, Pol. When you grow up around powerful people, it’s only natural to want to be in on it. It’s not until you’re older that you realize the responsibilities.”

  “Andry would say it’s the gift of the Goddess. He seems to find that justification enough for all the changes he’s made.”

  Rohan shrugged. “I don’t presume to know the Goddess’ mind on this.”

  “Ask Andry. He seems to have her ear these days.”

  “Belief is becoming less personal and more public, isn’t it? Ostentatious, as Barig said this morning. If Andry has his way, the gentle and very comfortable relationship we have with the Lady is going to change. I find that sad, Pol.”

  “These long speeches of Andry’s worry me. It’s as if he’s emphasizing his own importance by emphasizing the name of the Goddess. Connecting himself to her.”

  “Giving a perception of greater power than he in fact possesses?” Rohan shrugged. “Perhaps strength is justification enough for use of power. After all, if you’ve got it, why not use it?” He was pleased to see Pol grimace.

  “If that’s so, may the Goddess have mercy on us all.”

  “I agree.” Rohan stretched the tension from his shoulders and sighed. “By now power is expected of me. I don’t think I’ll be disappointing anyone this time. Not even you,” he added.

  Pol cleared his throat. “I know I’ve said some harsh things in the past. I understand why you wait, Father, I just haven’t learned your patience yet.”

  “Mine was a hard school. Your mother and I have tried to make yours a little easier without sacrificing the most important lessons. And this is one. Few people really understand the limits I impose on myself.”

  “My own limits are what I’m trying to define,” Pol said seriously. “I wanted to talk about—well, I don’t think you’re going to approve, but—”

  He broke off as they heard Arlis’ adamant voice from the other side of the door. “I’m sorry, my lord, but it’s impossible. His grace is—”

  “I don’t give a damn if he’s making love to his wife!” Barig roared. The door was flung open. Arlis tried to block the furious Giladan, saying, “Forgive me, your graces, but—”

  “Do you know what’s happened?” Barig waved a parchment from which a ribbon and a broken seal hung. “Do you?”

  “Not until you enlighten us, my lord,” Rohan replied. “Please calm yourself and tell us what news Prince Cabar has sent.” The pink ribbon was Gilad’s, and the characteristic grayish tinge to the parchment.

  “She’s dead! The miserable woman is dead!”

  Pol caught his breath. “The Sunrunner?”

  “Who else?” Barig rattled the parchment at him. “Because of you, she was allowed the sunlight, a daily walk at noon, and for all I know used her arts to contact other Sunrunners. Then she pretended to be ill one noonday, delayed her walk until later—and when she went out at dusk, she—”

  “Oh, Goddess, no,” Rohan whispered. “Shadow-lost. Deliberately.”

  “Yes, deliberately! It took her two days to die. His grace’s Sunrunner tried to keep her alive, but it was hopeless. And I know who’s to blame! He’ll never admit he ordered her to do it, but he’s as guilty of murder as she was!”

  “Lord Barig!” Rohan made his voice a whiplash under which stronger men than this had flinched. “We have no desire to hear unsubstantiated accusations.” He rose and held out his hand for the letter. Barig surrendered it with poor grace. Scanning it quickly, Rohan felt the muscles of his neck and shoulders twist with repressed fury. “We share Prince Cabar’s shock. But we are disgusted by his suspicions. You may so inform him when you reply to this.” He let the parchment drop to the carpet as if it was too foul to touch. “Arlis, be so good as to find Lord Andry and bring him to us.”

  “At once, your grace.” After a warning glare at the Giladan, the squire bowed himself out.

  Barig had recovered some of his aplomb and his words were tinged with as much sarcasm as he dared use to the High Prince. “This changes nothing. The guilt is still there, and the right of Master Thacri’s family to restitution.”

  “Don’t you understand what this woman did to herself?” Pol exclaimed. “That she used the very craft that was her
life to end her life?”

  “An unfortunate end, your grace. But self-chosen.”

  “Yet you just accused someone of ordering her to it,” Pol snapped. “Make up your mind, Barig. Give your supposed culprit a name, if you dare!”

  “I am not required by his grace my cousin to be insulted by—”

  “By the next High Prince,” Rohan pointed out. “We suggest you choose your words and your attitude most carefully, my lord. It would be unfortunate if Prince Cabar were held responsible for them.”

  Barig knew when he was outmanned. He made a jerky bow in Pol’s direction, a lower one in Rohan’s. “Your grace’s permission to withdraw?”

  “Granted.” Rohan waited just long enough for the door to close, then sank numbly into his chair.

  Pol picked up the letter. “Andry’s going to spit fire.” After a moment’s pause, he added without looking at Rohan, “You don’t think there’s anything in Barig’s accusation, do you?”

  “Of course not.” He shook his head. “Pol—I saw a Sunrunner die that way once. His name was Kessel. Merciful Goddess, to die that way, shadow-lost, mindless—ah, why couldn’t she have been patient just a little longer?”

  “Perhaps she thought she was doing the right thing. Perhaps she only wanted to escape. Whichever, Barig had a point. It doesn’t really change anything.”

  “No.” He paused. “It might be better if I told Andry myself.”

  “I’ll stay, if you don’t mind. Father, what’s to be done if Cabar makes a public accusation?”

  “He won’t.” Rohan straightened his shoulders. “His grace of Gilad has certain . . . vulnerabilities . . . known to me.” He gave Pol a tired, bitter smile. “Knowledge of secrets is also power, my son.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Stronghold: 33 Spring

  Marron stood guard duty in the Great Hall during dinner, a tall staff hung with Miyon’s heavy orange banner wearing a groove in his shoulder. The evening had begun with another of Andry’s invocations to the Goddess. He had quite an audience; even the most humble castlefolk were permitted to dine in the presence of the High Prince, except for those actually serving the meal, on duty at the gates, or at posts of honor inside. It disgusted him that Rohan chose to break bread with the commonality instead of banishing them to the stables and kitchens where they belonged. He saw nothing of the easy sense of community among the people here, nothing of their affection for their princes that came from associating with them in every aspect of their lives.

  When the meal was over, Marron would partake of the same excellent food, seated with the other servants at reset lower tables. But with his ancestry and his powers, by rights he should be sitting at the high table—now, this moment, eating off fine Kierstian plate and drinking from delicate Fironese crystal. That he would soon be able to do as he pleased at Stronghold was small comfort. He had had enough of playing lowly servant.

  The strain of this charade was wearing on his nerves. Constant vigilance to make sure the face presented was not his own was bad enough. It was exacerbated by the equally nerve-wracking alertness required to stay out of range of those Sunrunners whose diarmadhi blood made them sensitive to the spell he had spun around himself. And on a more personal level, he was damned sick and tired of following orders and being a good boy.

  He had taken this duty night after night so that Mireva and Ruval could have time to make further plans and still know what went on at meals. He had volunteered to sleep in the stables, ostensibly to guard Miyon’s precious horses, in reality to make sure no one came upon him when he slept and resumed his true shape. He had followed orders to escort Meiglan on today’s ride, though it had been chancy keeping out of Riyan’s way. He had frightened Meiglan’s horse with a brief but vivid conjure, giving Ruval time to sneak up to one of the caves for who knew what purpose. He had succeeded in every task given him—other people’s tasks that gained other people’s ends. He had endured years of bowing to that bitch Chiana, and after this spring of consorting with lowborn guardsmen he’d had enough. The disguises would be over with sooner than Mireva or Ruval thought.

  He absorbed the details of the Great Hall with a discerning eye. Intimately familiar with Swalekeep’s ancient elegance made a bit garish by Chiana’s taste, he found Stronghold a marvel of classic beauty and strength. Only the best for High Prince Rohan, he told himself sourly. Exquisite dinner service, magnificent tapestries, furniture carved of the finest Syrene woods, candles from Grib giving soft white light instead of oily, smoking torches—though this was a warrior’s castle, always battle-ready, it was also that of a prince.

  Marron was a prince. And before he was done, he would be High Prince in his grandfather’s place, with the castles of two lands to choose among for his residence. He shifted the banner from the bruise on his shoulder and, after a moment’s consideration, decided to spend spring at Dragon’s Rest, summer at Castle Crag, autumn at Feruche, and winter here at Stronghold. There would be pleasure trips to Radzyn and other places as he desired, and Elktrap would make a fine hunting lodge. . . . He grinned to himself. If Mireva and Ruval thought he would meekly accept Feruche as his only payment for all he had endured, they would have to think again.

  His stomach growled a demand for dinner, and the Tiglathi guard standing nearby with his lord’s banner glanced over with a sympathetic smile. Marron gave a little shrug in reply. Tonight’s gathering was not the grand banquet ordered up for Miyon’s arrival, and so music and dancing would not follow into the night. But the highborns were taking a long time over their taze. With the rumors of the Sunrunner’s death in Gilad, it was amazing that a formal meal was taking place at all. He would have thought they’d all eat in their rooms.

  The food here was spectacular, even that served to the common folk. The flesh Marron had lost at Tiglathi from unaccustomed physical labor was returning to his belly. He wondered enviously how these Desert people kept their figures; Rohan had the waistline of a man half his age, and the High Princess showed off a lissome shape tonight in a simple blue dress that slid along her like water.

  Marron changed his stance again in irritation as the squires went around with still more pitchers. Then he squinted up to the high table and frowned. It was not taze that was being poured but wine, and into tiny crystal glasses like the ones Chiana used for sweet fruit cordials. A toast, then. Marron grimaced. That fool Miyon had probably signed some agreement or other—not that any of it meant anything. Neither Rohan nor Pol would be around long enough to fulfill any bargains.

  He caged his impatience as best he could, knowing that his own plan as well as Mireva’s required him to wait just a little longer. She wanted him to assist in Ruval’s challenge to Pol, but Ruval was not going to have the chance. Marron would be the one to claim that right. He would couch it in a demand for Feruche, but with Pol’s defeat not just that castle but all of Princemarch would be forfeit. And his dear brother could try as he might to dislodge him. Marron had what Ruval did not: Chiana’s trust and, through that, her army.

  The noisy chatter in the Great Hall fell to whispers as Pol got to his feet and raised his glass. The crystal glowed dark sapphire blue in candlelight blazing from wall sconces and tables. Only the best here, Marron thought again—the Gribains demanded outrageous sums for their candles and these were the finest, burning clear and bright amid huge vases of flowers. Not that any candle would dare gutter in the presence of the High Prince, he added spitefully.

  Pol waited for silence. Marron doubted he would make any remark about the dead Sunrunner. No one had confirmed the rumors, and the Giladan courier had known nothing useful when Ruval had casually questioned him a short while ago. Lord Andry was looking tight-jawed, Marron noted with a tiny smile. Sunrunner deaths were a thing he’d have to get used to.

  Pol began to speak in crisp, admirably carrying voice. Even at the far end of the huge hall, Marron heard every word.

  “The death of my beloved kinsman, Lord Sorin of Feruche, has left a void in all our heart
s. He was everything that a man should be, and more. He loved the Desert and its people.”

  Marron smiled to himself. Rest assured I will cherish your princedom, too, Starborn, once it is mine.

  “But most especially Sorin loved the wondrous castle he created. Feruche is his from its foundation to its topmost spires. Every stone was planned and placed by him. Sorin’s it is, and always will be.”

  Mine it will be, and all else with it!

  “His loss is a grievous one—to his family, his friends, to all of us. It is a sorrow to me to have the giving of Feruche. I had hoped Sorin would give it to his eldest son. But I think he would wish to see his beautiful castle ruled by a man who was close to him in friendship, who will make of Feruche what Sorin would have made of it himself. It is with confidence that I give it now to Lord Riyan of Skybowl.”

  The blood roared in Marron’s ears and he shook with rage. It was Pol he must challenge for possession of Feruche, not some lowborn Sunrunner without a drop of prince’s blood in his veins, Pol who must own Feruche now that Sorin was dead. How dared he do this? He simply could not give it away, could not ruin Marron’s chance to thwart Ruval and gain everything for himself.

  “No!”

  His shout was drowned by cries of Riyan’s name as everyone lifted their glasses. But a moment later a woman shrieked in stark terror. Marron’s fury had overcome his sorcery. As he strode up to the high table, his second face and form shimmered away.

  The scream at the end of the Great Hall found hysterical echo at the high table. Meiglan’s face was a horrified mask, her eyes gone black and her skin dead white. Nearly lost in her piercing cry was the shatter of crystal and the soft groan Riyan gave as he dropped his glass and clutched his trembling fists to his chest.

  An old woman ran to Meiglan and hauled her bodily from the room. Rohan saw this from the corner of his eye, grateful that someone had had the sense to remove the girl before her screams infected the whole room. He forced himself to stand straight and still, even though the fragments of Sunrunner heritage in him flinched in response to Riyan’s pain, just as Sioned was quivering at his side. He was High Prince; he could show no reaction and especially no weakness.