Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire

by Melanie Rawn

  “No,” she said again, this time with more voice in it. “I won’t do this. Sionell will protect me—she’s my friend, she said so just now—”

  “Brave try,” he sneered. “There’s only one problem. You want Pol. Don’t you, sweet little flower? Don’t you!”

  He had her now. It didn’t much matter why she obeyed him—through fear of him or love of Pol—as long as she did obey. And she would, or lose the dragon’s son forever. She bent her head to her knees and quivered, but the sound that came from her was not a moan. It was “Yes.”

  Satisfied, Miyon gazed down at her for a moment more. Then he hauled her up by the shoulders again. “Future High Princesses do not bury their faces in the dirt,” he mocked, “not even to their fathers.”

  She looked up at him, dark eyes sparking with some of the courage of that morning. He slapped her across the face, snapping her head to one side and nearly breaking her nose.

  “Remember that,” he growled, and released her. She staggered but managed to keep her feet. With a last contemptuous glance that hid his relief, Miyon turned on his heel and strode away.

  Meiglan’s ankle stabbed painfully as she limped to the pool. She knelt to wash her face, crying out softly when her scraped and bloody hands contacted the cold. The water she splashed on her face dripped dark. Her cheek was on fire, her nose not quite numb. With movements which after a time became automatic, she kept rinsing her face until the bleeding stopped.

  For the second time that day she was startled by a voice behind her. But this one—soft, worried, weary—caught her heart. “My lady? Are you all right?”

  Frantically she sluiced more water onto her burning face. Though there was no more blood, she could feel the bruises swelling her cheek and nose. Yet she could not avoid him. So she stood, trying not to favor her injured ankle, and met his gaze with what she hoped was pride enough.

  His reaction was immediate and frightening. His eyes kindled with fury, lips thinned to a lethal slash, it was a face she had never seen him wear. “Your father?” he demanded.

  She nodded helplessly. “I don’t want to go back to Castle Pine! Ever!”

  He came toward her, mist from the waterfall gathering in his hair. As he passed from shadow into a shaft of sunlight through the trees, the droplets shone like a crown of tiny rainbows. “Ah, Meggie,” he whispered, brushing the curls from her brow. “You needn’t be afraid of him ever again. I promise.”

  The sound of her childhood name was so piercing sweet that tears came to her eyes. And again she surprised herself, for she had not wept in front of her father, not even when he had slapped her. But now—now a sob strangled her breathing. It escaped as a soft moan and she turned away.

  “You don’t believe me?” he asked.

  She made herself answer. “If you say it, then it must be true.”

  His hands rested on her shoulders, light and tender over the bruises her father had given her. “It helps me, knowing you trust me. That seems to be in rather short supply.”

  She risked a glance over her shoulder. His face was pensive, solemn. “How could anyone not trust you?”

  Her honest amazement made him smile, and he turned her to face him. “You are the most wondrously innocent person I’ve ever met. There’s no subterfuge in you, is there? None of that proud cleverness that surrounds me—that I flatter myself I possess.”

  She remembered her father’s mockery, and flushed.

  “That’s the difference between me and my father,” he went on, more to himself than to her. “He has a patience I envy but will never possess. It’s the patience of cunning—but I’m not comfortable with it. I can’t emulate him.”

  She struggled for understanding. “You have your own way of doing things, my lord.”

  He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “I think what it must be is that he feels things more deeply than I do. He takes them personally. Not in the sense of being offended, but—as if he’s responsible even when he isn’t. I don’t have the courage to inflict that on myself. I don’t know how he does it, quite frankly—or why. I don’t have patience or strength to fight the way he does.”

  “But not everything that goes wrong is your responsibility,” she ventured, trying to comprehend him. “Your way is better than his.”

  “Do you think so?” He was truly concerned with her reply. She gave it without hesitation.

  “Yes, my lord. You are not your father. Your battles are not his.”

  “And there’s a battle coming tonight for me that he can have no part in.” Pol touched her hair again. “Meggie—afterward, if I survive this—”

  “Of course you will survive! You must!” She could not conceive of what might happen if he did not; the very idea terrified her.

  A smile came to his face again, softening his expression. “Thank you. Whether you said that because you know it’s what I needed to hear, or whether you truly believe it, thank you.”

  “I trust in you, my lord. You will win.”

  He must.

  Pol leaned down and kissed her mouth: gently at first, quietly, but with a growing passion that not even an inexperienced virgin could mistake. As his lips traveled slowly down her throat, she gave a tiny, shivering sigh.

  She was confused when he lifted his head and looked into her eyes again. Had she done something wrong? Was she supposed to say something, do something?

  “So innocent,” he whispered, “you are innocent, Meggie.”

  Her cheeks burned anew. Of course he was used to women who knew how to kiss a man. He was her first. It humiliated her that this was so obvious to him.

  He was smiling at her now, a wistful smile that melted away all emotion but newly discovered love for him. He was powerful; he would protect her with his cleverness and his strength; she would be safe. The notion was as foreign to her as the love, as the sudden desire that trembled through her while looking up at the sweet curve of his mouth.

  “May I watch tonight, my lord, when you take the battle to your enemy?” Surprise flickered over his face. “I want to see you win.”

  “You really do believe it, don’t you?” he mused.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He smiled again. “Meggie, my name is Pol. Say it for me.”

  She did so, shyly. Feminine instinct roused for the first time in her life and she knew as she said his name that he would kiss her again.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Rivenrock Canyon: 35 Spring

  Ruval pressed his back to the ragged wall of the cave, breathing hard. He had just used hated sunlight for the fifth time that day, trying to find Mireva. There had been nothing from her, not the slightest whisper. He had been about to search on the noonday sun when Pol’s acceptance had come to him, a declamation powerful as a storm wind through pines. The satisfaction of having an affirmative answer at last had not survived his failure to find Mireva. Now it was getting on toward sunset. Soon the sky would blacken and the stars, would pock the night. He must accept that he would face Pol alone.

  Alone.

  He whipped back rising panic with pride in his lineage, his powers, and his training. He would win. Mireva had chosen him as her instrument of vengeance against all Sunrunners. He would confirm Mireva’s choice, avenge his mother, sit in his grandfather’s place as prince at Castle Crag. Roelstra had failed, and Ianthe, to break Rohan’s power. They had been cunning—but Ruval possessed knowledge they had not. He knew how to kill Pol, and in a way no one would ever suspect.

  So he scoffed away trepidation and settled once more on a little shelf of stone at the cavern mouth, eating the last of his meager provisions as the shadows lengthened. He didn’t much like the canyon, though it would be a magnificent arena for his victory. The shadows carved deep into the rock walls were black and silent, like eyes disguising secrets. The cave he rested in was littered with the leavings of countless dragon generations—skulls with staring sockets where eyes should have been, shattered shells half-blackened by fire. A stiff, leathery
bit of wing had fluttered in the afternoon up-draft that swept through the canyon, startling him into a cry that echoed from wall to wall outside. He set himself to planning the eradication of every dragon now living—he’d discovered they were fine sport, and old Prince Zehava had had the right idea about proving prowess by killing the great beasts. But, more than those things, he disliked the feeling he got in this place where dragons had been. It was their place, not his; he intended that every grain of sand in the Desert and every handspan of soil on the continent belong to him alone.

  Just before the sun vanished, he sifted dranath into his wineskin and drank it down. The drug bolstered his courage, gave new strength to his blood. Very softly, Ruval began to laugh. The sensuous haze of the drug rippled through his body, and then the welcome sensation of power. He clenched sand in his fists, let it trickle through his fingers, admiring the sparkle of golden dust visible even in the dimness. This, too, was power. Ruval decided to let Rohan live for a time, to feel the agony of loss and failure Ianthe had known. Then he would die, and all his family with him. Princemarch, the Desert, the gold—everything would be Ruval’s. And the title of High Prince.

  With the first stars came the call of dragon horns. Ruval stood, brushed off his hands, and smiled. He needed no one. He was alone, but it was better so. Everyone would see that his were the greater powers, and bow to him as sorcerer and prince. It was the moment his mother had craved and been cheated of. He would kill Pol with her name on his lips.

  The setting sun blooded the Desert, turning the swells and hollows of flower-strewn sand to waves in a dark crimson sea. Sioned rode with her husband behind their son, watching the light redden Pol’s hair until it was almost the same firegold as her own. She could sense other presences behind her, riding by twos—Chay and Tobin; Maarken and Hollis; Tallain and Sionell; Walvis and Feylin. Miyon rode with Barig, Arlis with Morwenna. Rialt and Edrel brought up the rear. Ruala and Riyan were missing—she was still shaken and though he fiercely wanted to witness the battle, Pol had ordered him to stay with her. Andry and the Sunrunners Oclel and Nialdan had also stayed behind. Meiglan, like Pol, rode alone. She had been the subject of a heated discussion that afternoon between Sioned and Rohan.

  “Well, he can’t marry her.” They had just seen the pair from their windows, strolling the gardens.

  “Has it occurred to you that he may actually love her?”

  “Impossible! She’s not what he needs. Look at her, keeping him wandering around down there when he ought to be reviewing the Star Scroll—if she cared for him at all, she’d—”

  “Sioned, it’s in her eyes whenever she looks at him. And he looks at her—”

  “Oh, yes, I’ve seen it,” she said derisively. “He plays the big, strong, protective male with her. Goddess preserve me from imbecilic masculine fantasies! Pol doesn’t need some delicate little flower who’d be crushed by the first stiff breeze. He needs a wife and a princess. And he knows what kind of woman he ought to Choose.”

  “You mean the kind of woman you think he ought to Choose.”

  “Why are you defending her?” she exclaimed. “Meiglan could never comprehend even the smallest part of Pol’s work as a prince!”

  “Did you ever think that perhaps he doesn’t need what I did in a wife? I may have required a living flame—but not every man needs that kind of woman.”

  “You’ll never convince me he needs some shatter-shelled little fool who never opens her mouth except to whimper!”

  “From what you yourself said, it seems to me she did pretty well against her father this morning.”

  She scowled. “That has nothing to do with it. She’s wrong for him.”

  “Pol’s not five winters old anymore, Sioned. He’s a grown man entitled to make his own decisions.”

  “And his own mistakes?” Sioned swung on him furiously. “I won’t let him do something that would ruin his life!”

  He replied with the deceptive mildness that would ordinarily have been warning enough. “My father would probably have considered you a mistake. But my life has hardly been ruined.”

  “I won’t allow it, Rohan. He’s not going to marry her.”

  At last his patience gave out. “If he does, you’ll damned well have to get used to it! And don’t make him choose between you,” he finished. “You might not like the result.”

  Now she stared down at her gloved hands on the reins, ashamed and afraid. She knew there had been women in Pol’s life—unimportant ones, known in pleasure but never in love. They didn’t matter. But his Choice of a wife mattered desperately. She could have given him to Sionell, or someone like her. Had he Chosen a woman of strength and intelligence and ability, she could have let him go—not gladly, for no mother ever relinquishes an adored son without regret. Much as Tobin loved Hollis, she had privately confessed twinges of sadness at no longer being first in her son’s heart. Sioned assured her that this was only natural. Now she was feeling the same things. But it would not have been so bad if only he had fixed on a woman worthy of him.

  Meiglan was not. She was not worthy to take Sioned’s place either as the most important woman in Pol’s life or as the next High Princess. And Sioned was terribly afraid that the girl would indeed become those things.

  She fretted at her emotions as she would at a sore tooth all during the ride—until she realized that this was exactly what she should not be doing. All her thoughts and energies must be directed toward what would happen at sunset. There would be time later to dissuade Pol from a disastrous marriage.

  Sioned calmed herself just in time; the dragon horns sounded at the canyon mouth, startling her. She hadn’t even noticed that they had arrived at Rivenrock. Quickly she scanned the area, looking once again for traps. There were none that she could see. She considered searching the area by the light of Sunrunner’s Fire, but Rohan had been adamant: this battle must be Pol’s from beginning to end. She accepted that. She had to.

  Chay and Maarken rode forward to repeat the call of the horns. Pol sat his stallion like a statue as they passed him, barely nodded when they turned their horses smartly in unison and bowed to him. Chay came to a halt next to Rohan, and Sioned heard him murmur as he slung the horn over his shoulder, “Damned thing always leaves me winded. But, Goddess, the sound of it!”

  He was sixty winters old and his dark hair had gone silvery, and a tight grin emphasized the lines scoring his face. But out of his eyes looked the fierce young warrior who had fought beside Prince Zehava and won his daughter, who had ridden with Rohan to defeat Roelstra’s armies, who had been Battle Commander of the Desert for thirty-eight years. Sioned felt her spirits lift slightly. Power was in Sunrunner skills and sorcery, in gold and in cunning, but most of all it was in the quality of the people who had been given to her and Rohan and Pol.

  A shadow appeared high on the canyon wall: tall, lean, the shape of a man blacker than the cavern he had emerged from. In his hand a sword gleamed like steel lightning. He paused, making sure he possessed the attention of all, then made his way lithely down the slippery stones.

  Pol gestured with one hand, and Edrel sprang off his horse, running forward to hold the great stallion’s reins while Pol dismounted. The others rode up to form a half-circle. Hollis’ braids shone like plaited gold; Tallain’s smooth shock of fair hair glinted like a mail battle coif; Meiglan’s curls clouded pale and misty around her white face. But the tinge of red clung to Pol’s hair, and as he approached his parents his eyes were entirely blue without a hint of green—and he looked like Rohan and Sioned both. Not like Ianthe at all.

  And yet as he stood between their horses, looking up at them with calm and confidence, the clarity of innocence was gone. Replacing it were knowledge and purpose—grim things, both of them. Mourning, Sioned reached down to touch his cheek, the place where her own face wore a scar.

  Rohan was the one who remembered the rules. “Insist on the traditions that will help you—and don’t allow any of the rest.” He gave Pol the wineskin s
trapped to his saddle. “Dranath.”

  Pol nodded. He looked steadily up at Sioned, wanting to speak but just as obviously unable to find the right words. She summoned a smile and brushed back his hair—gesture from his boyhood, inappropriate to a man. She did it anyway. He caught her hand between his palms for a moment before pressing a kiss of loving homage to her fingertips.

  He left them to speak soft words to Edrel. Then, after taking several steps toward the canyon, he paused once to look back over his shoulder. Not at Sioned or Rohan: at Meiglan.

  The sudden glinting smile was for her, no one else. The look he received in reply was of such glowing translucence that it lit the sunset. “You’ll damned well have to get used to it!” echoed Rohan’s voice. Abruptly Sioned remembered Pol’s description of a vision in Fire and Water near the old Sunrunner keep on Dorval. “It was just my face, Mother—I was expecting to see someone else with me, the way you saw Father. But it was only me, wearing a prince’s coronet. In a way, it was a little lonely.” And perhaps that was how he was meant to rule, even wanted to rule: alone. If so, Meiglan was the perfect Choice for him. She tightened her grip on the reins as Ruval’s boots crunched through the rocky soil at the canyon mouth. Pol should not be thinking of Meiglan. He should be concentrating on the battle. Yet he loved her, and she him. Just as Miyon had planned.

  Pol turned to face his half-brother with his perfect calm intact. What he had seen in Meiglan’s face had evidently reinforced his confidence. Sioned had seen it, too: innocent faith, blind trust. No striving, no blaze of a brilliant mind, no real strength. Only love. Sioned hoped it would be enough.

  “Why does it happen this way?”

  Rohan’s whispered bitterness startled her out of her own. His face was as composed as Pol’s, but his eyes were open wounds. “What do you mean, beloved?” She made her voice gentle, forbidding fear to scrape the words raw.