Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire

by Melanie Rawn

  “This,” he repeated. “Always. One man battling another.”

  Himself against Roelstra, Maarken against Masul, Pol against Ruval. Whole princedoms distilled down to two men. “Better one battling one than thousands battling thousands,” she answered softly. It was the High Princess speaking, not the woman who had watched husband and nephew and now son go forth to their small, private wars.

  He glanced at her, murmured that she was right. But one look at his eyes and she knew she was wrong. There was another combatant here, one who could not join in the actual fight but who would nonetheless participate in every attack and counterthrust—even though the battle would be conducted with powers he did not possess. Rohan would feel it all, take it into himself as if this small war between two men was being fought inside his own flesh. His bones and his blood and his brain would become a battleground, for he was the kind of man and the kind of prince who pulled conflict into himself, who was willing to make his own being its focal point. He internalized war, as if he had swallowed fire.

  Sioned ached for him, for the impulse that made him bring battle unto himself for resolution. It was the price of his vast patience. He waited for the fire to be brought to him, then absorbed its violence into himself. It was the measure of his vast strength that no war had yet broken him.

  But Pol would never be that way. His battles would rage externally, treated as invading enemies who might storm his citadel of self but would never batter him down. He would not swallow the fire; he would become fire.

  Shadows darkened the canyon and the first stars appeared in a deep blue sky. Pol walked forward, the colors of him so strong they were almost an aura around him. Aleva, the Star Scroll called it; the circle of fire proclaiming power.

  But the same shone around Ruval’s dark head. Amethyst and ruby and dark sultry garnet, they were opaque colors, lightless though not lifeless. As surely as Pol’s bright pale colors accented by emerald shimmered just on the edge of her Sunrunner’s vision, so did Ruval’s darkness swirl in subtle patterns of force. Sioned reached one hand instinctively to her husband, felt his firm grip, and silently pleaded that he would not let go until it was over.

  Pol had not seen the sunset scarlet of the Desert as Sioned had. Instead of blood, he was reminded of fire. In his imagination it rippled across the dunes, making the flowers and tall dry grasses separate small torches. When the sunlight vanished over the Vere Hills to the west, the flames did not die out; they only paled on their leap into the sky. The stars ignited one by one—the first ones far away in the near-blackness over the Long Sand—then spread like wildfire. Much as he loved the verdant valley of Dragon’s Rest, he sometimes hungered for this desolate sweep of sand and sky, this land his ancestors had fought for and kept. He wondered if their spirits hovered about him on the slight breeze, watching as he approached his own battle for their Desert.

  Ruval strode a few more paces toward him, then stopped. He wore a flowing russet mantle, clasped loosely around his narrow hips by a belt of heavy linked gold circles. His blue eyes had picked up the blackness of his high-collared tunic. Pol sized him up quietly—not for strength or speed or skill of the body, but for the qualities of mind and power. But those things were forgotten as Ruval lifted both tanned, long-fingered hands.

  He wore Sunrunner’s rings. Ten of them, set with jewels.

  The blue-black eyes laughed as Pol stiffened in outrage, the mocking glint in them saying, And who’s to deny me, princeling?

  But for just an instant, there and gone so fast Pol barely knew it had happened, it was not Ruval he saw standing before him. It was Andry.

  A casual flick of one finger, and flames blossomed from a boulder on Pol’s left to light the space between them. He looked into his half-brother’s eyes, searched his face for any hint of similarity between them—and thanked the Goddess that his father’s blood was so strong in him that there was no resemblance at all. He felt no call of kinship, no pull of shared origin. He wondered briefly if echoes of his own face in Ruval’s would have made this harder.

  He conjured answering Fire on a large stone to his right. The area was well illuminated now, light seeping into the craggy stone face of the canyon mouth. How many days since he rode here with his oh-so-clever plan for Meiglan in mind? He felt a hundred years older now. Knowledge had changed him.

  So had Mireva. He shied away from that memory, and the need for a cleansing image sent his thoughts to Meiglan. It was surprising to realize that she, too, had changed him with her trust and faith. She asked nothing, demanded nothing—because in her eyes he was already everything that could protect and cherish her, everything he had always wanted to be: a true prince and Sunrunner; powerful, strong, and wise. Always before when he had looked at a woman and wondered what it might be like to have her as his wife, he had considered the issue only in terms of himself. His wife, his Choice, his marriage—as if he was the only one involved. With Meiglan, the only way he could explain it to himself was that when he looked at her, he wanted to be her husband.

  There was a serenity in that, unexpected and welcome, a sureness of heart that matched his faith in his power. Not arrogance, not vainglory, but simple awareness that whatever must be done, he had the strength to do it. So he faced Ruval with unfeigned serenity, waiting.

  “The smart thing to do would be to kill me where I stand,” Ruval said. “Or have one of them do it for you.” He gestured toward their audience, standing nearby beside their horses, forming a rough semicircle.

  Pol nodded agreement.

  “But you’re not smart, Pol. You’re honorable.” He sneered the word.

  “I wouldn’t want to disappoint anyone.” Pol hesitated slightly. “You say Roelstra was your grandfather, Ianthe your mother. What proof can you offer?”

  Ruval’s face betrayed surprise. He had not been expecting a challenge of this nature at this late date. He took a small gold coin from one pocket, and tossed it at Pol. “You’ll recognize my grandsire’s face.”

  Holding it between thumb and forefinger, he asked in honest amazement, “Do you seriously expect me to compare profiles?”

  The coin sprouted tiny, cold flames. In them Pol saw a roomful of gold lit by a single torch held high by a very beautiful, very pregnant woman. His heart stopped, then raced: Ianthe.

  “A small trick,” Ruval said negligently as the flames flickered out. “But I’m sure you’re aware that such a memory could only be conjured by one who was there to see it. Who else would Princess Ianthe show her gold to but her eldest son? Gold your father provided in exchange for dranath to cure the Plague.”

  Pol struggled to recover from stunned astonishment. The display had been impressive, not only in its casual power but in its effect on him: his first and probably only sight of his mother. Pregnant. Carrying him. His fingers felt welded to the coin, even though the flames had held no heat.

  “Satisfied?” Ruval demanded.

  “I—” He cleared his throat. Ruval had made it all too easy to put the right tremor into his voice. “Is there anything that will content you other than this battle?”

  His half-brother looked interested. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Land. A castle. Perhaps Feruche, which your brother wanted enough to die for—”

  “You’re that frightened of me?” Ruval laughed. “Oh, I’ll have Feruche, all right. And Dragon’s Rest and everything else you own—especially Castle Crag.”

  “And if I refuse this battle?”

  “Back down in front of all these people?”

  “You have no army, now that Chiana is out of the way. You’d lose a war.”

  “Andry used the more benevolent ros’salath at Dragon’s Rest. Make war, or even attempt to kill me here with treachery, and I’ll show you its true power.”

  Pol bit his lip and was sincerely glad that his cousin was absent tonight. Evidently the Star Scroll had not taught him the fatal version. “I agreed to meet you here—I didn’t accept formal challenge.”


  “I noticed that in your wording,” Ruval commented. “Allow me to convince you. If you refuse, I’ll reveal the Desert’s most cherished secret.”

  The blood froze in his veins. “And that might be?”

  “Gold.” He waved to the canyon behind them. “Unlimited, secret gold. Dragon gold! I know about Skybowl. In the memory of that coin is the smelter there. Accept my challenge, Pol, or Miyon and Barig will soon know the truth—and you’d have to kill them to keep them from spreading the knowledge to every other princedom.”

  “It seems I have no choice.” He hid his relief and tossed the coin back at Ruval with what he hoped was a good show of false bravado.

  “None whatsoever,” Ruval replied cheerfully.

  Pol pulled his shoulders straight and asked, “Shall we settle on the rules for the ricsina?”

  Ruval’s brows arched. “So you have read the Star Scroll.”

  “Certainly. Haven’t you?”

  “As much as Mireva could steal, from Andry’s copy. Where is he, by the way?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I suppose not. But he would have enjoyed watching you blunder around with spells you don’t understand. You’re not his favorite person.”

  “Granted. Well, shall we begin?”

  “All Elements,” Ruval said briskly. “And the two of us only. No other people. I don’t need anyone else.” He smiled. “You can’t win, you know. There are things about sorcery that can kill you if you use them incorrectly.”

  Pol glanced away. “Agreed,” he whispered.

  “I also claim no weapons, no physical touch.”

  He didn’t bother to hide his chagrin; there were several knives about his person that would have been useful if that rule had not been invoked. “I didn’t expect an honest battle from you. But you’re the one who can’t win. Princemarch is mine, and you’re going to die.”

  “I’ll write that on a slip of parchment and burn it in the oratory at Castle Crag in your memory,” Ruval grinned.

  Pol ignored the taunt. “What about dranath?”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you need it?”

  “Do you?”

  For answer, Pol unhooked his father’s wineskin from his belt, unstoppered it, and deliberately upended it. The dark liquid charged with power-enhancing drug spilled onto the sand.

  He heard a soft gasp behind him—his mother, probably. Perhaps it was a foolish gesture, but it was one he had to make. Ruval was responding quite nicely so far. Rejection of dranath would not only further encourage belief in his weakness and stupidity, but it would also signify something more important: he was Sunrunner, not sorcerer. The stray thought teased at him that Andry would approve. Grudgingly.

  “That leaves only the shielding,” he said.

  “Impossible. Tradition calls for three on each side. I have no one but myself. I need no one but myself to kill you.”

  “My mother, the High Princess, constructed one before.”

  “She knows nothing,” Ruval scoffed.

  “Yet she managed it.”

  “No. I do not agree.”

  Pol made his shrug one of disappointment; he hadn’t really expected to win that point. “Yet I expect you will agree to the use of the Unreal.”

  “Oh, so you think to terrify me with horrible visions?” Ruval’s good humor returned. “By all means! It should be interesting. If we’re agreed, then call forward witnesses. Your father, Miyon, and Barig will do.”

  Pol did so, as if submitting to Ruval’s authority. When the three stood near him, he listed the conditions of battle in a slightly hoarse voice. Rohan’s carefully composed expression was belied by the dark concern in his eyes; Miyon seethed with a silent, angry demand that Ruval emerge the victor; Barig simply stared, understanding perhaps four words in ten. But he hadn’t the temerity to ask for a lengthy explanation.

  “The conditions are acceptable to both of us,” Pol said at last. “If any of them are broken, the violator’s claim is forefeit. Punishment is your responsibility, as witnesses.”

  “Understood,” Miyon snapped. “Get on with it.”

  Ruval grinned at him. “Why, your grace! So eager to see your guards recruit win? Or do you expect me to lose?”

  The Cunaxan looked ready to strangle him. He turned on his heel and strode back to his horse.

  Barig said nervously, “As my prince’s cousin and representative, I’ll keep a damned sharp eye on the proceedings.”

  Pol appreciated his situation—and his bluster that tried to hide almost total incomprehension. “We thank your lordship for the assurances.”

  “And trust in your perceptions,” Ruval added mockingly.

  Rohan said nothing until Barig had returned to the group. Then he murmured, “You’ll die tonight, Ruval—one way or another.”

  “Have you the stomach to kill the son of the woman who bore your child?”

  Pol tensed in spite of himself. Rohan only lifted one brow.

  “I saw him that night,” Ruval went on. “Just after he was born. My last brother in his cradle where he burned to death.”

  “Such touching family sentiment is rather unexpected,” Pol made himself remark.

  “When I’ve finished with you, I’ll settle with your mother—who killed mine.” He glared at Rohan. “You I’ll leave alive long enough to watch the death of the faradhi bitch who also murdered your son.”

  “Had Ianthe raised him, he would not have been my son,” Rohan replied.

  Pol swallowed hard. There was the center of it, he thought. And he was passionately grateful for Sioned’s courage. He no longer cared whether or not she had been the one to kill Ianthe. He’d have to live through this, if only to tell his mother how deeply he loved her.

  Rohan left them. Pol turned to Ruval and drew in a deep breath. He reached into his pocket, fingering a little golden talisman, remembering the wise old Sunrunner who had given it to him. The Star Scroll had taught him many things today—most of which he hoped he wouldn’t have to use. He must defeat Ruval as a Sunrunner, not a sorcerer. Not just for symbolism’s sake, but for his own. He was the son of Rohan and Sioned, not the scion of diarmadh’im. Yet the techniques perfected by his ancestors chattered in his mind, as if words written on parchment were speaking to him. They advised this spell or that, debated the merits of each, proposed new variations to fit the circumstances. But in a worried undertone a woman warned of danger. Her voice was his mother’s and Lady Andrade’s and Tobin’s, and nervous fancy told him that some part of it was Lady Merisel who had written the words of the Star Scroll. She had preserved perilous knowledge and then hidden it away. Why? The scholar’s fatal reluctance to let any learning disappear? Or something else?

  Likely he would soon use that learning to kill his own half-brother. He looked into Ruval’s eyes, and it was no blood-bond or sentiment between siblings that revulsed him from the inevitable. It was a terrible, will-destroying sadness. His princedom, his place, even his life, had been won with other people’s bloody deaths: Ianthe and Roelstra, the pretender Masul, Segev, Marron, and now Ruval. What made him worth so much killing?

  But then he remembered Sorin, and the anger swelled in him. Those others had died mortal enemies; Sorin had been murdered defending him. For Sorin he would win this battle. For his mother, who had risked everything for him. And for his father.

  He held Ruval’s gaze with his own, seeing not his brother but the Enemy, all Enemies.

  “We begin,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Stronghold: 35 Spring

  Andry stood on the top step, looking down into the cellars. He told himself he was not afraid of Mireva. He also knew this was at least a partial lie. It wasn’t what she might do—Rohan’s gambit with the steel wire had all but removed that fear. It was what he might learn from her.

  Secrets more deadly than those of the Star Scroll. Ways of power that, once learned, could pollute everything he was. Truths that might mean his eventual def
eat.

  Knowledge of any kind being power, he finally descended the stairs into the cool dimness. In chambers to his left were the enormous cisterns that held Stronghold’s water supply—nearly overflowing this year, ensuring plenty of water for years to come. The grotto spring provided the main supply, but Andry could remember times in his childhood when it had nearly dried up. Even if it turned to sand for several years, Stronghold would still be awash in water, kept fresh by the addition of herbs that also gave it a clean, distinctive taste. It was one of the small things he missed at Goddess Keep, the subtle tingle of this water on his tongue.

  He paused in a doorway to view the massive cisterns for what he fully expected would be the last time, then continued through the maze of crates, excess furniture, rolled-up carpets, and other stored items to Mireva’s cell. Along the way part of his mind busied itself with contingency plans: how many of Radzyn’s people could be housed at Stronghold when—and if—the castle fell? How many could the cisterns keep alive, and for how long? If Stronghold was taken as well, was there a way to deprive the invaders of this precious bounty of water in the Desert?

  He believed in his vision as if it was already historical fact. He had thought that perhaps it would come to pass this spring. But Radzyn still stood. He would detour there on his way out of his uncle’s princedom. He desperately needed to see it whole and proud on its seaside cliffs. One last time.

  There was a cellar below this one, so protected from the blazing heat that ice could be made within it. He remembered sneaking in with Sorin when they were children, scraping enough dry frost for good approximations of snowballs. He remembered so much . . . playing at dragons, learning to ride, trying bows that drew too much weight for little boys, causing dreadful mischief and never being able to talk their way out of it, taking seriously old Myrdal’s bedtime tales of secret passageways and turning half the castle inside out before Chay caught them, and Sorin being unable to talk them out of that one, too. . . .