Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire

by Melanie Rawn

  Pol made it to his feet on the second try, with his father’s help. “Why didn’t you just kill her?”

  “Because there are still others like her. And our possession of her might be of some worth against Ruval. Besides, I have something else in mind for her. Something infinitely more fitting.”

  Pol had never before seen another person’s death in his father’s eyes. He wondered suddenly if this look had been given Ianthe. His mother.

  Rohan rubbed absently at his wounded shoulder. “I believe there are suitable accommodations in the cellar—holdovers from our barbarian past,” he added ironically. “If you and Maarken would be so good as to escort her there when she comes around—but I see she’s recovering already.”

  “Rohan? Are you going to stay in there all night?”

  Chay’s exasperated voice heralded his shadow in the doorway. “What’s going on?”

  “Patience,” came the reply. “Go outside and tell everyone they can return to their beds, please. We’re almost through here.”

  “What about Ruval?” This from Sioned. “He’s still here somewhere.”

  “Is he?” Rohan mused. “I wonder.”

  Prodding Mireva’s ribs with his toe, Pol asked, “Well? Where is Ianthe’s eldest spawn?”

  Mireva glared at them. “Hidden where you’ll never find him, in the walls of this very castle!”

  Rohan smiled. “Thank you. You just informed me that he’s not here. If he were, you would have bragged of his escape to entertain yourself with watching me search the castle for the rest of the night. Let’s see, how would he have gotten out of Stronghold? Ah, of course. The guards I sent out looking for you today in the hills. I thought that might be a mistake, but—never mind.”

  She spat feebly at him, the truth of his deduction in her eyes. Pol was beyond mere amazement now. He could only stare and wait for his father’s next unsuspected gambit. But if he had been expecting something spectacular, he received only a tired smile.

  “I think it’s time we all got some rest,” Rohan said. “Tomorrow may be rather busy.”

  They hauled Mireva out. Andry approached her with the curiosity of a scholar looking upon some new and unsavory discovery.

  “So,” he said. “This is a sorcerer’s face.”

  She lurched to her feet, wrists already raw where she had struggled against the wire binding her. “So,” she sneered, “this is a weakling Sunrunner’s face.”

  His brows shot up. “You are the one imprisoned here, not I.”

  “Not for long.” She flung her head back defiantly, the steel wire shining from her earlobe.

  “Spare us your threats,” Riyan snapped. He stood nearby, Ruala within his embrace. “There’ll be no protection for Ruval now. He’ll have to fight Pol fairly.”

  “Ah,” Sioned murmured, casting a surprised look at Rohan.

  Pol had only just realized it, too. By depriving Mireva of sorcery, the starfire dome of the rabikor could not be fashioned. Riyan and Ruala were safe.

  “You think you’ve won, High Prince,” Mireva taunted. “Think carefully. You don’t know where he is, what he’s doing, what he knows and how he will use it.” She turned her laughing gaze on Pol. “How much good will your Sunrunner tricks do you against the full power of a diarmadhi?”

  Andry answered her. “They seem to have worked rather nicely against you.”

  “Not for long,” she repeated.

  Mydral thumped her cane on the stone. “I’ve had enough of this piece of filth,” she announced. “Get her out of my sight.”

  Pol and Maarken started for Mireva, Andry a step behind them.

  “Three strong young men to guard one poor, helpless old woman?” she mocked. “You must fear me even more than I thought.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” Pol told her. “They’re coming along to make sure I don’t kill you on the spot.”

  “Do you think you could?”

  He smiled with fatal sweetness. “I know it. But I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the sight of Ruval’s death.”

  They took her belowstairs. There were people in the hallways now, returning to their interrupted sleep at Chay’s order, eyes popping with curiosity. Not only did this ordinary-looking old woman merit an extraordinary escort, but three small fingerflames of Sunrunner’s Fire lit their way down the stairs. Pol knew that before anyone’s head rested on a pillow again, word would spread throughout the castle. Everyone would believe that the threat was gone, whatever it had been, and they were safe. His father had that effect on people.

  As he descended the cellar stairs behind Mireva, he realized that his own apprehensions had eased. Goddess, how cunning Rohan was. First he had shown Pol the Star Scroll with its spells to work with and its traditions of the rabikor. Then had come the revelation about Ianthe to let him know that he was Ruval’s equal in power if not in formal training. Now Mireva was rendered helpless, and by an innocuous piece of steel wire that would interfere with any attempt to use sorcery; there would be no powers but his own and Ruval’s when the challenge came. Tension still coiled in his belly, but Pol knew he would face the man unafraid. His father had given him that.

  And his mother. Sionell was right. It must have cost Sioned her soul to tell him. And he had repaid her with cruelty. He would make it up to her with more than the brief words he’d been able to manage earlier. To Princess Ianthe he might owe his existence, but to his mother he owed his life.

  And to Sionell, the humblest of apologies.

  “Here,” Maarken said, breaking into Pol’s thoughts. “Grandfather Zehava showed me this when I was little. It’s where he kept those rare idiots who offended him twice.” He gestured Mireva into the tiny room with a sarcastic flourish. “Before he personally escorted them out to the Long Sand and left them there.”

  “Why not do the same for me?” she asked.

  “You heard his grace,” Maarken reminded her. “He wishes you to watch your last hope die.”

  She smiled. “If he does, which is by no means certain, it won’t be until he’s settled the debt of Segev’s death with your murdering bitch of a wife.”

  Pol saw Maarken turn white in the sudden reactive blaze of conjured Fire. Then Mireva was pinned to the back wall by her throat.

  “If you even so much as think harm against my wife or my children, I’ll kill you myself,” Maarken hissed, shoving her higher up the stone. “And I warn you, I am neither as powerful nor as civilized as my brother or my cousin. It would take me a very long time, and I would make sure every instant was exquisite agony. So guard even your thoughts, witch. Someone will be listening.”

  Pol had seen death in Maarken’s eyes before, but not like this. Even Mireva was taken aback. Maarken let her drop to the stone floor, dazed, and spun on his heels. He left it to Andry and Pol to secure the door.

  Pol made a swift visual inspection of the cell. It was absolutely bare, without so much as a blanket to lie upon or a piece of straw to set afire for light. There were no windows. The heavy iron door did not even have a slot for passing in food and drink. Evidently his grandfather had meted out a ruthless justice; once it closed, that door would open only to remove the prisoner for transport to a quick death in the trackless wastes of the Long Sand.

  It occurred to him that probably in just such a room, Ianthe had imprisoned Sioned.

  “There’s nothing here she can use, even if she could get her hands free,” Andry observed. “The way Rohan tied the wires, she’d slice her hands off at the wrist before she could get loose.” Andry regarded her for a long moment, then slammed the door shut with a clang. “So now we wait.”

  Pol secured the lock. “It won’t take long.”

  “Are you prepared for it? For what he’ll try to do to you?”

  He thought his tiny fingerflame closer so he could see Andry’s face. “Don’t tell me you’re concerned.”

  His cousin shrugged. “Better you as High Prince than Roelstra’s grandson.”

  Pol kept reacti
on from his face. “I thought you’d see it that way.” Then he sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I wanted to thank you for your help tonight. You didn’t have to, but you did.”

  “That’s right,” Andry said, nodding, and they started up the steps.

  Pol’s next words came at even greater price, but he said them. “We worked well together. I think that shows we could continue to do so.”

  Andry gave him a quizzical look. “What was it she said? ‘When dragons fly the seas instead of the sky’?”

  “Why do you have to make things so difficult?”

  “I have my duties and responsibilities. You have yours. If they clash—well, at least we won’t be accused of conspiring together toward complete tyranny. Isn’t that a desirable outcome? Won’t it be reassuring to the other princes?”

  Pol stopped him with a grasp on his arm. “Stop this, damn it! Andrade and Roelstra were checks on each other’s power—and lifelong enemies. We don’t have to emulate them.”

  “You’re a dreamer, cousin. You think of what could be. I must think in terms of that I know is to come.”

  Pol kept hold of his temper with difficulty. “You keep mentioning this mysterious future. What exactly are you afraid of?”

  For a moment he thought Andry might tell him. Then his cousin shrugged. “If you live long enough, maybe you’ll find out.”

  His grip tightened. “You don’t think I’ll defeat Ruval?”

  “On the contrary. I think you will. But you have other enemies. Stray diarmadh’im looking for revenge for killing their leader and their prince. Stray Merida—there are always stray Merida. Chiana cannot be discounted. Nor Miyon.” Andry paused. Then, with mock solicitude: “Tell me, if you end up marrying the girl, do you think the knife in your back will have his handprint on it—or hers?”

  Pol let him go as if the contact burned him. “It’ s a damned good thing you’ve been forbidden this princedom.”

  “Remember that when the future I’ve seen comes to pass.”

  They glared at each other by the angry flicker of two small flames. After a few moments Andry shrugged once again and continued up the stairs. Pol waited until he had regained control of himself, until the cellar door had opened and closed again behind his cousin.

  “The last word—this time,” he vowed. “Never again.”

  Fortunately, he had calmed enough to listen to what he said—and grimace. So much for what he thought he’d learned tonight. He had acted swiftly and decisively with Mireva, and he had hung on long enough for his father to carry out his plan. And that was the difference between them: Rohan had known exactly what he was doing and Pol had not. Pol had acted on instinct and emotion. His father worked from sure knowledge and patient reasoning, those things that were Rohan’s greatest strength.

  Maarken might indulge in quick fury, but Pol must not. Particularly not regarding Andry, who seemed to have mastered the art of angering him. Nor, he realized suddenly, regarding this mysterious future threat. While he felt no duty toward Goddess Keep and none of the awed deference most people, especially Sunrunners, accorded its Lord or Lady, he could not but respect Andry’s certainty that this threat would appear. Pol was living testimony to the power of faradhi visions.

  Patience. The ability to wait, to think things through, to act only when one understood. To use power and strength where they did the most good. To be certain of when, how, where, and why one acted. To be cautious always—and ruthless when necessary. To know exactly what to do. Rohan and Sioned had built peace on those qualities. He suddenly despaired of ever matching their wisdom.

  Had either of his parents been aware of the towering virtues Pol ascribed to them, they would have gaped with astonishment and then roared with laughter. Their catalog of mistakes, miscalculations, and misapprehensions was no less than anyone else’s—and they would have been the first to admit how often they had acted on blind instinct without any patience whatsoever.

  Yet as he climbed the last flight of stairs, Pol’s reprimands to himself taught him much more than if his perceptions had been more accurate. Some other time he would examine history and conclude that perfection was not among his parents’ attributes. But for now, exhortations to patience, caution, and knowledge were of much more use to him.

  They allowed him to listen with a quiet mind and a calm spirit as Ruval’s challenge echoed on the last starlight just before dawn. Pol heard the arrogance and the anger, the insults and the impudence, and knew they covered fear. He stood in a windowed hallway, in a pool of bright white light, smiling. And made no reply. His answer would come tomorrow when noon sun baked Rivenrock Canyon.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Stronghold: 35 Spring

  Tobin stormed into her brother’s chambers a little after dawn, her rage reminding him forcibly of their parents. The flash fire temper was Milar’s; the blazing black eyes, Zehava’s. As he heard her out, he wondered idly what they would have thought about this present pass. Not to mention a few other things he had done in his life. . . .

  “—as clearly as if the bastard was standing next to me!” Tobin was fuming, pacing up and down before the bed where he lay propped on soft pillows.

  “What took you so long to get here?” he interrupted.

  “I was with Hollis and Maarken, trying to keep the babies from having hysterics!” she shouted. “First you roust everyone out of bed in the middle of the night, and then Ianthe’s bastard scares the children half to death!”

  “Are they all right?” He was half out of bed, ready to go to Chayla and Rohannon even though there was nothing he could do.

  “Once they wake up from the sleeping draught we had to give them!” Tobin glared at him.

  Rohan settled again with a long sigh. “Listen, do me a favor. Don’t tell Pol. He’d be furious, and that wouldn’t help him at all.”

  “Furious? I’ll show you furious! I’ll geld that impudent whelp, shrieking his challenge to every Sunrunner in the keep! I—”

  “And to every Sunrunner in reach of starlight,” Rohan interrupted.

  That stopped her in her tracks. “What?”

  “Sioned confirmed this morning at sunrise. Or, rather, she received messages from Donato at Dragon’s Rest and Meath at Graypearl. Currently she’s contacting several other friends. I suspect the sky will be as busy today as it was last night.”

  Tobin sat at the foot of the bed. “And what are you going to do about it?”

  “It’s Pol’s fight now, not mine. I’ve done all I can.”

  “All you can?” she echoed incredulously. “You could find Ruval the way you found Mireva and—”

  “The time for killing Ianthe’s sons in secret was years ago, before anyone knew they existed. Hollis got one of them, Andry the second. The third belongs to Pol.”

  “And what if he loses?”

  “He won’t.”

  “You’re very sure of yourself!”

  “No, I’m sure of him.” He raked both hands back through his hair. “I have to be. I was right about where Mireva was hiding, and I was right about Ruval’s means of escape. His horse trotted in just before dawn, wearing Stronghold saddle and harness, and one of our guards was found trussed up in a tack room in the stables. I’ve been right about almost everything, and I’m right about Pol, too. I have to be,” he repeated.

  “No one’s ever doubted that you’re clever,” she snapped. “And I have no doubts about Pol, either. But Ruval is an entirely different threat than the pretender was nine years ago.”

  “I disagree. The threat isn’t just to Princemarch. Masul tried that, thinking that all he need do was appear at the Rialla to be acclaimed as Roelstra’s true heir. I see now that Alasen was right, and this was the diarmadh’im’s first move back to power. Masul never knew. If he’d won, Ruval would eventually have killed him and taken Princemarch after being revealed as Ianthe’s son. But we can’t think just in terms of land and castles. Look at the way Ruval’s done it, Tobin. How many Sunrunne
rs heard the challenge last night and his claim to Princemarch? One hundred? Two? All of them, touched by starlight, sleeping or waking? Pol’s the next High Prince, but he’s also a Sunrunner. Kill him, gain his lands and his position, and the diarmadh’im have a power base to work against Andry and all other Sunrunners.”

  She scowled at him. “And my honorable fool of a brother feels he must meet this challenge head on instead of killing the whore-son outright as he should.”

  “If I’d found him last night, perhaps I would have killed him—or let Pol do it. Though I think Andry would have given him a fight for the privilege. But I can’t do that now. Too many people know.”

  “And what does Pol know?”

  “Everything.”

  She caught her breath and all the fire went out of her. “Oh, Rohan,” she whispered.

  He looked down at his hands. “It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And Sioned—but he understands. He may even forgive us, in time. He had to know, Tobin. He needs the advantage that knowledge of his other power can give him.”

  “Against his own half-brother.”

  He nodded. Kicking back the covers, he rose and shrugged into a thin, pale silk bedrobe. “Arlis is taking a long time about breakfast.”

  “Don’t change the subject.” She stopped again, scowling. “Wait—you said that two of Ianthe’s sons are dead. Hollis killed one?”

  “Nine years ago. Segev. Sent by Mireva to infiltrate Goddess Keep, probably to steal the scrolls Meath found that year. That’s just a guess, based on the fact that he worked with Andry and Hollis on them. But Urival recognized him and told Pol about it before he died. Pol told us last night, after the challenge. Mireva made a threat about Hollis, that she’d pay for the murder—”

  “In Maarken’s hearing?” A fleeting glint appeared in her black eyes.

  “Yes. I’m surprised she survived it, myself. In the tack room where the guard was found, there were also several things belonging to Hollis. And one of Chayla’s little shirts and a pair of Rohannon’s shoes as well. I don’t like to imagine what they planned to do with them.”

  Tobin sucked in a breath, her eyes kindling again. “I’ll kill that witch myself!”