Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire

by Melanie Rawn

  Chay went by with Jahnavi, complimenting the boy on his instinctive grab for his sword—a true warrior’s reaction on so abrupt a wakening. “By the Goddess’ grace, I hope you won’t need it,” he added.

  Miyon was next. Rohan bet himself that the Cunaxan prince would echo Barig’s words, maybe with a “How dare he?” thrown in. But Miyon surprised him. He descended the steps unruffled and unconcerned, a much more telling reaction than if he had stormed into the foyer with loud complaints. Rohan shook his head. The man was too confident, and too arrogant to hide it.

  It took Walvis and Feylin both to support Meiglan down the stairs. From his post in the alcove Rohan heard Feylin’s gentle encouragements before he actually caught sight of the girl. Her appearance shocked him. She could barely walk. Her bright curls looked crushed, her dark eyes dull and only awake enough to be frightened. She clung to Feylin as Walvis steadied her with an arm around her waist. After the last step she paused, swaying, eyelids fluttering as if she was about to faint.

  “Meiglan!”

  Her father’s roar straightened her body like a whip across her back. Walvis looked murderous; Feylin, disgusted. Rohan was about to step forward and deflect Miyon’s wrath when Pol appeared out of nowhere and strode to the girl’s side. Deftly he took charge of her from Walvis. But she was too terrified to notice the identity of the man whose strong arm now supported her.

  Miyon had stopped halfway to her, his upraised hand falling to his side. But he did with words what he did not dare do physically, not with Pol there. “How dare you trouble the Lord and Lady of Remagev with your worthless person!”

  Meiglan clutched at Pol’s shirt. “Father—I’m sorry—what have I done?”

  “Goddess, what stupidity! Did you think this assembly was called for you?”

  It was obvious that she did, that she believed a public humiliation in front of the whole castle would be his ultimate cruelty. The confusion in her drug-hazed eyes slowly gave way to pathetic relief and she sagged against Pol.

  He directed a single, quelling look at Miyon, then said, “I’m pleased to see you up and about, my lady.”

  Rohan expected her to collapse when she recognized Pol. Instead, though she turned even paler if that were possible, she managed to straighten up and compose herself a little. She trusted him. Rohan found that very interesting. And he decided that Miyon and his diarmadhi allies would pay not only for their crimes but for using this innocent child.

  As the foyer cleared, he leaned against the wall, hands deep in his pockets, reviewing his next actions one last time. Much depended on his knowledge of the people involved—but he had picked up a taste for gambling from his wife. A tart mental reminder that Sioned never bet except on a sure thing only brought a wry smile to his lips. He couldn’t afford to be that cautious. Not now.

  Arlis, who had known where he was all along, approached the alcove. “It took a bit longer than I had hoped, but Stronghold is emptied, my lord.”

  “Good. I hope Barig didn’t insult you too much.”

  Arlis grinned. “I confess he goaded me into a display of bad taste—I had to remind him I’m a prince of Kierst and Isel.”

  “I excuse you—and I tremble for your dealings with Cabar once you’re ruling your island. Instruct five pairs of guards to go through all the rooms a last time. They’re to stay together, mind. Oh—and have Myrdal sent to me.”

  “At once, my lord. I’ll make it fast. They’re getting restless outside.”

  “Dear me. And it’s such a lovely night,” he mused, shaking his head.

  Arlis gave a snort. “Six years with you have taught me that tone of voice means you’re up to absolutely no good.”

  “I’ll have to remember that if we ever find ourselves on opposite sides of an issue at a Rialla. I should’ve realized it was a bad idea to foster a future ruling prince in my household.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. I just wish I knew what you were up to this time.” The squire left through the main doors to command the search.

  Rohan sat on the alcove bench, content still to wait—and to let the others grow as restless as they liked. Pol wanted him to act. Well, it had never been said of him that once he decided a thing, he hesitated in carrying it out. He hoped that one day Pol would understand that a High Prince acted only when he must—and then ruthlessly.

  The ten guards came and went through the foyer without noticing him. Myrdal hobbled in a little while after, white hair flowing down her back, dragon-head cane tapping impatiently on the stones.

  “Well?” she snapped. “Where are you, boy?”

  Rohan emerged from the shadows. “Here. I apologize for disturbing your rest.”

  The old woman eyed him shrewdly, missing nothing of his black clothes enlivened by touches of Desert blue and gold embroidery. “Dressed as High Prince, I see, while the rest of us are in bed-gowns. Not very subtle, Rohan.”

  “I’m not dealing with subtle people, Myrdal.”

  “Granted. Well, then, what do you want of me?”

  “Your knowledge. You know places within Stronghold where nobody else believes there could be places.”

  “And you think the sorcerers are hiding in one of them? Hmm. You may be right. This is a very old castle.”

  “You know it better than I do—and I’m the one who owns it.”

  “I suppose it’s time I told you,” she admitted. “Your great-grandsire Prince Zagroy knew all the secrets, but he was a possessive sort and didn’t quite trust his son. So he entrusted the knowledge to my mother.”

  “His illegitimate daughter,” Rohan said.

  Myrdal grinned at him. “Possibly, possibly. In any case, my mother shared it with me, and I told most of it to Maeta. I thought she’d have a daughter or son of her own to pass the knowledge to. But it seems I’m the last.” She lowered her ancient bones gingerly onto the third step, sighing. “Some of the secrets you know. Can you tell me what they have in common?”

  “They operate by hidden catches, they’re all built into stone and none into wood, and—” He stopped, staring down at her with his mouth open.

  Myrdal nodded. “Never had to think much about it before, have you? The trigger is always marked with a star or a sunburst.”

  “You’ve shown me five—no, six. Two with a star, four with a sunburst. For Sorcerers and Sunrunners?”

  “Think of how many times this keep has changed hands,” she suggested.

  “Damn it, I don’t have time for guessing games!”

  “Impatience was always a failing of yours,” she chided. “You’ve controlled it remarkably well recently; now isn’t the moment to give in. To answer your question, yes, it has to do with who put the secret into the castle. Some are fatal. There’s one in the Flametower that lands one rather precipitously in the cellars.”

  “That’s a structural impossibility,” he stated.

  She only laughed.

  “Oh, all right,” he said grudgingly. “Were the Sunrunners as lethally inclined?”

  “In general, no. My mother had their only death trap walled up and its symbol effaced from the stones. Something to do with a knife-lined floor.”

  He stared in spite of himself. “Here? In Stronghold?”

  She shrugged. “You’ve kept the peace as High Prince. Times weren’t always so easy. When the diarmadh’im were here, they sought and learned the faradhi tricks—a favor the Sunrunners returned when they retook the castle. They went on like that for about thirty years, merrily setting traps for each other.”

  “The histories make no mention of it,” he challenged.

  “Would you write down all your secrets? I gather you’re interested in places that could hold a few people in reasonable comfort.”

  “I need to find them quickly, Myrdal,” he said.

  “The sorcerers and their Merida assassins specialized in quick escape routes—like the one at the grotto. But hiding holes were put into Stronghold by faradh’im.”

  Rohan cau
ght his breath. “And they’d need sunlight more than anything else!” He thought rapidly. “An outer wall, then—and southern exposure to get the most light.”

  “Very good. Help me up, boy.”

  He did so as the guards returned. Arlis came to him with negative reports. “Not even a stray bedbug, my lord.”

  “I should think not!” Myrdal sniffed. “Princess Milar spent the first year of her marriage having them all hunted down. Why, I remember—”

  Rohan interposed gently, “Arlis, bring my wife and son here, please. I need Lord Chaynal, Lord Maarken, and Lord Riyan as well.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Myrdal squinted up at him in the gloom. “Have you thought what you’ll do when you find your sorcerer?”

  He put his hands back into his trouser pockets. “I have an idea or two.”

  “She’ll throw everything she’s got at you,” the old woman warned.

  “I know. But she doesn’t know what I intend to do to her.”

  “I doubt you’ll be able to kill her.”

  “So do I.”

  Myrdal thumped her cane on the step. “Don’t play coy with me!”

  Making innocent eyes at her, he replied, “I wouldn’t presume.”

  “Oh, as you like, then,” she muttered. “You haven’t changed since the day you were born.”

  “But I have, you know,” he said seriously. “I’ve learned how to be afraid.”

  Pol helped Meiglan into the torchlit courtyard, pleased that she seemed to be growing stronger with each step. A tinge of color had returned to her lips and cheeks, she breathed more easily, and her eyes were brighter, more lucid.

  There were hundreds of people currently in residence at Stronghold. Every last one of them—save a telltale few Pol looked for and did not find—jostled for space in the courtyard. Confusion there was; guards posted at strategic spots made sure there would be no chaos. Pol heard snatches of conversation as he and Meiglan descended the outer steps, and it intrigued him that while junior servants and the strangers from Cunaxa and Gilad and Tiglath all speculated on what the High Prince had in mind, those who knew his father simply waited in silence. Their long service here had bred a trust he had never thought about before. But it was not blind faith; it was the certainty of experience that whatever the difficulty, Rohan would solve it the cleanest and quickest way possible.

  Pol escorted Meiglan to a place beside Walvis and Feylin. She murmured words of thanks to the couple for their assistance.

  “Not at all,” Feylin replied briskly. “Actually, I’m astonished you were able to stand up, let alone walk. That sleeping potion was one of the strongest I’ve ever encountered.”

  “Are you feeling better now, my dear?” Walvis asked.

  “Yes, my lord.” She cast a brief glance at her father, who was out of earshot. “I-I need to explain what happened, your grace,” she said to Pol.

  “I wish you would,” Feylin told her with frank curiosity.

  A deeper color mounted her cheeks, and she again looked toward Miyon.

  “It will be between us,” Pol reassured her.

  Meiglan gave him a strangely dignified nod. “Thank you, your grace. But I d-don’t have anything more to fear.”

  He stared down at her, taken aback. “Not here, of course,” he said, groping for words. “You’re quite safe, my lady.”

  “Perfectly,” Walvis agreed. “I can understand that watching that man’s face changing into something else altogether was startling—I admit I had to pick up my jaw with both hands.”

  “It’s what I saw when the change was complete, my lord. I recognized him.”

  “As what?” Pol asked, unable to keep suspicion from shading his voice.

  “Before we left Castle Pine, I came upon my father talking with a man while another approached. He was very displeased and s-sent me away.” The catch in her voice at remembered ill-usage tore at Pol’s heart. “That man was one of them. I-I recognized his red hair.”

  “So when you saw his real form. . . .” Feylin encouraged.

  Meiglan shivered. “I’m sorry for my behavior. But I—when I knew who he was, and Mireva came to take me out of the Great Hall—”

  “She drugged you to the eyebrows to keep you quiet,” Feylin said.

  “It’s my fault,” Meiglan said miserably. “I was the excuse and the opportunity to bring sorcerers within this keep.”

  Walvis took her hand. “Nonsense. Nobody could possibly blame you.”

  Pol watched the huge dark eyes fill with tears of gratitude. But she did not weep. He tried to be logical, tried to examine her story rationally. If all was as she had said, then she could not have been in his bedchamber last night.

  Meiglan’s form, but not Meiglan. Mireva.

  The twist of physical sickness in his guts told him he had best not dwell too long on that idea. Meiglan was what mattered now. Did he believe her? Suspect her? Trust her?

  What had she to lose at this point? Everyone now knew who the diarmadh’im were. There was no danger to them in telling her tale. He saw her dry her tears with her sleeve, a childlike gesture that brought a renewed ache to his chest. Did he dare believe? What if it really had been her last night, not Mireva? What if this was just one more lie designed by sorcery and her father?

  But she had just handed him her father on a golden plate. Miyon had been seen with Marron and Ruval, Miyon had taken them into his service. Pol had been sure of Miyon’s complicity before, but now he had proof.

  Of a sort, anyway. If he could believe her.

  She looked up at him, beseeching his forgiveness and understanding. He opened his mouth to speak, not knowing if he would accuse her or accept her.

  “Your pardon, your grace, but the High Prince commands your grace to attend him within the keep.”

  He swung around, startled by Arlis’ voice and formal phrasing. “What? Why?”

  “The High Prince did not share his reasons with me, your grace. But he was most insistent that your grace obey him immediately.”

  Pol looked down into Meiglan’s dark eyes, tortured. Decide—one way or the other! He saw his fingers caress the lingering drops from her cheek. Her lips parted in fearful wonder at his touch. Unable to bear even this tenuous contact with her, he turned and followed Arlis up the steps.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Stronghold: 34 Spring

  Sioned felt wrapped in darkness, shut away from the sun as she had been in Ianthe’s dungeon, touched with the madness of that long-ago time. Weeping had cleansed neither her eyes nor her heart; she felt sick, her eyes throbbed, her whole body ached. She wanted to crawl to her bedchamber and huddle in that darkness like a wounded animal.

  She stood silently by the closed doors of the Great Hall. When Pol came into the foyer, her control wavered for a moment. Candles revealed shadows around eyes already bruised with strain. There was darkness about him now, where before there had always been only light.

  He saw her and glanced quickly away. Sioned fixed her gaze on the emerald resting heavily on her hand, remembering how she’d wrested it from Ianthe’s finger. Claimed back everything that was hers. How young she had been then, only a few years older than Pol was now, how certain of herself and her vision. But what was a wound on her shoulder seen in Fire and Water was a scar on her cheek in reality. Andrade had told her long ago that conjured visions came to pass if one worked to make them happen. The difference between what she had seen and what had occurred, symbolized by that crescent-shaped scar on her face, had never troubled her before tonight. Now it frightened her. Perhaps it meant she had been wrong to take Pol, wrong to destroy Feruche.

  Yet as she risked looking at him, doubt drained away. Even if he never forgave her, even if he wasn’t her son, he was Rohan’s. All his gifts of strength and pride, intelligence and power, would have been twisted had Ianthe had the raising as well as the bearing of him. What Sioned had done, the way she had done it, had not been wrong.

  “Father?” Pol was
saying. “What’s the trouble?”

  “Wait until the others arrive. I only want to explain this once.”

  “What others?”

  “Until you have something useful to say, be silent!” Rohan snapped.

  Pol stiffened, answering coldly, “As you wish, your grace.”

  Myrdal snorted. “Well, well. Prickly as pemida cactus tonight, aren’t we?”

  The situation was saved by the entrance of Maarken and Riyan. Rohan had insisted that Arlis make the summonses formal; the two young men took the hint and made their bows to the High Prince, not speaking until spoken to. Rohan acknowledged them with a nod and the words, “I trust your various talents are in working order even in the middle of the night.”

  “Our gifts are at your grace’s command,” Maarken affirmed.

  Chay entered, Andry beside him, in time to hear Maarken’s words. Andry’s lips thinned as his brother offered up Sunrunner abilities to a prince’s use. He approached Rohan boldly enough, saying, “I’m pent up here like everyone else, even though we both want me gone—you may not wish my presence, but you may require the Lord of Goddess Keep.”

  “We welcome your presence, my Lord,” Rohan answered quietly.

  Mollified but wary, Andry nodded.

  Sioned did not join them. She waited in the shadowed doorway, watching Pol’s face.

  “We have ordered Stronghold emptied of all its obvious inhabitants,” Rohan said. “Now it’s time to take care of the unobvious ones.” Without further explanation he took Myrdal’s arm and helped her up the stairs.

  The others followed, expressions reflecting various degrees of confusion, curiosity, and concern. Still Sioned held back. And what she both wished for and feared came to pass. Pol mounted only two steps before he paused, turned, and came to where she stood.

  Sioned held her breath. She forced herself to look into his eyes as he halted before her, his eyes that were bitterly ashamed.