by Melanie Rawn
Meiglan added, “Which are empty the rest of the year. Yes, please, Kierun,” she said as the squire hovered at her elbow, “I’d love another cup of taze.”
“If the mountain folk stayed,” Ruala continued, “Chaldona would be a rather large town. The guest houses are a bit rustic, but comfortable enough. The only problem I foresee is evicting the Dorvali once they’re established.”
“Always assuming we can get them there in the first place,” Pol said, nodding thanks to Kierun for the steaming cup set before him. “An idea Meggie has now put into the minds that matter.”
Chay, who had been listening from his chair next to Beth’s, cleared his throat in warning. “Successfully, too. Here is our Meiglan’s unsuspecting victim now—looking just as he would have if Sioned herself had played him. My congratulations to the High Princess.”
Pol felt the hand in his tense at the title. But he had no time even to glance at her in sympathy, for Master Nemthe was indeed approaching the high table. Pol briefly debated the merits of offering to meet with him alone, then decided that the more witnesses, the better. He assumed his most pleasant face and hid anticipation as the merchant distributed bows all around.
Ruala spoke first. “Master Nemthe, I trust you and your family are comfortable here.”
“Feruche is a vast improvement over Skybowl—meaning no disrespect, my lady,” he added awkwardly.
“Of course.” She was all graciousness. “Although Feruche can be deceiving in its amenities. It is, after all, a castle built for war.”
“Will it come to that?” Betheyn asked, frowning.
“My lord?” This from Meiglan, with a pleading look from big, soft eyes.
Chay coughed and began peeling a marsh apple from the bowl Kierun had set on the table. Pol sternly controlled his face, wishing he was not a featured player in this little farce and could sit back and enjoy it like his uncle.
“Our enemies have sought every other castle in the Desert,” he said. “But don’t worry—if they come here, they’ll have a surprise waiting for them.”
Ruala nodded her agreement, but didn’t elaborate. Instead, she turned her attention to a nearby bowl of fruit. No one else in the hall made any pretense of not watching the encounter—or listening, if they sat close enough to the high table.
“That’s precisely what I wished to speak to your grace about,” Master Nemthe said. “What guarantee is there that Feruche will not fall as Radzyn and Remagev and Stronghold did?”
From the corner of his eye Pol saw Chay’s hands go still, one of them white-knuckled around his paring knife. But it was just the path Pol wanted Nemthe to tread, though he would have chosen another gate.
“Again, no disrespect intended, your grace,” the merchant went on, “but none of us feels entirely safe here. How can we? The traditional bargain struck between commoners and athr’im, athr’im and princes, and princes with the High Prince—support and supply in return for protection—has been broken.”
“Broken?” said Isriam, from Chay’s right. He spoke softly, but in the sudden quiet his voice carried menace in its very gentleness. Pol had the incongruous thought that Isriam must have learned that tone from Rohan. And it reminded him to behave with his father’s cunning and restraint—when what he really wanted to do was—
“An unfortunate choice of word,” Nemthe said, not sounding sorry. “But it’s true that the age-old contract was not fulfilled. We were not protected. Will it be different here? The enemy wanted Graypearl—and now owns it. Faolain Riverport, Gilad Seahold, Lower Pyrme, Radzyn, Remagev, Stronghold—the enemy has those, too. The only place that didn’t fall was Goddess Keep, thanks to your grace’s cousin, Lord Andry.”
Pol heard the murmurings even above the pounding of his heart. This was no time to point out that Faolain Lowland was safe because of his and Sioned’s efforts. That Lower Pyrme and Remagev were not in enemy hands because the deadfalls arranged there had scared the enemy away. That Tilal’s army had had much to do with the victory at Goddess Keep.
This was also no time to grow angry.
Nemthe was only expressing fears Pol wanted him to feel. If Pol didn’t happen to like the manner of that expression, it was his own fault for not arranging things better. The way Rohan would have done. He would have known what to say, what to do. Pol could almost hear him, see him. He would lean back in his chair, a small physical token of retreat—perfectly calculated. He would murmur that Master Nemthe’s misgivings were painful to him, but he was glad to have heard them honestly said. He would suggest that perhaps Master Nemthe would feel more secure in his person if he were not at Feruche, and that every effort would be made to find a place. . . .
At which point Master Nemthe would mention Chaldona, and in two days the whole unwanted noisy lot of them would be gone.
Damn you, Father, why did you have to die?
“Forgive me for being so blunt,” Nemthe concluded, “but none of us is sure that your grace will be able to protect us any better than your father did.”
Isriam forgot his training. He growled and half-rose from his chair, only to be shoved back down in it by Chay’s strong hand.
It was a small, frail hand that rested on Pol’s arm, and a tremulous voice that said, “You dare doubt the High Prince?”
Exactly the wrong thing to say. Part of him—most of him—loved her for it. But whenever he heard those two words, he still waited for Rohan to answer.
Everyone else was waiting for him.
He did lean back in his chair. Not in calculated retreat; his whole body proclaimed contempt.
“If you believe us in such dire need of help, perhaps you’d care to assist.”
The merchant developed a wary look. “Your grace?”
“Can you hold a sword, Master Nemthe? No? Are you an archer? Can you use a spear, perhaps? A knife? Not that either? Ah, but I do you an injustice. The weapons of commerce are parchment and pen. Would you care to write the Vellant’im a letter?”
Instinct told him not to stand; unlike Rohan, he was very tall and physical intimidation was best saved for those who required it. Nemthe’s humiliation could be accomplished with words. Pol was not stupid enough to make the mistake of overkill.
He knew it was stupid to address the subject of his cousin, but once begun, the words would not stop.
“Or perhaps you’d turn your parchment and pen in Lord Andry’s direction. Better yet, why not seek his protection yourself, as you have such faith in it? True, Goddess Keep is a goodly journey from here. In winter, with who knows which armies marching where, I estimate it would take . . . oh, call it sixty days, just to be on the safe side. Well, Master Nemthe? When are you leaving?”
Crimson with rage, the merchant turned his head to look for allies. The hall was hushed to the rafters. Not even a candle dared to flicker.
Pol was thoroughly ashamed of himself. He’d known full well what he should have said, what he had set Nemthe up to hear. But every word he spoke was wrong. That’s what he got for trying to be clever. For trying to be his father.
All at once a chair scraped on the tiles. A tall, whitehaired old man stumped forward to the high table, the light of battle in his eyes. Nemthe’s head turned; his spine turned to steel. “Tormichin,” he muttered. “I only needed that!”
The elderly merchant bowed low to Pol, then addressed Nemthe. “That’s no way to talk to a lad who’s lost his father, and still less a thing to say in the hearing of all of us who’ve lost our High Prince! You think he’s not just as worried for his wife and little girls? But he’s also got all the rest of us to protect, and all the princedoms to defend! You apologize at once, you insolent swine!”
“There’s no need for that,” Pol said swiftly. “It is I who must ask Master Nemthe’s pardon. Reminding a prince of his shortcomings can be an uncomfortable practice.” He consciously used what Andrade had always called the family smile, feeling even more the fool. “It’s true that as yet I’m untested as High Prince. It’s also t
rue that I shall need the assistance of all persons of good will.”
“And we can help you most by packing ourselves out of your way,” Master Tormichin asserted. “Anywhere you send us is fine with me, your grace.” He elbowed his fellow merchant in the side.
Nemthe swallowed bile and nodded. “With all of us, your grace. I’ve heard of a holding called Chaldona. If it’s possible—”
And there ensued the conversation that ought to have occurred to begin with. Guilt made Pol offer carts to carry people and possessions, and mountain ponies to draw them. Nemthe wanted an escort of one hundred soldiers; Tormichin avowed they needed only thirty. Pol gave them fifty. Isriam, back in control and understanding his part, offered to lead them.
“The two hundred measures to Chaldona won’t be easy,” Pol warned.
“No worse than the many hundreds we Dorvali had traveled thus far, your grace,” Tormichin said. “I’m an old man, far from my hearth and home. But between staying in the middle of a war or a five-day journey over a good road to a safe haven, I know which to choose. Wisdom doesn’t have to bite me on the ankle.”
So Pol got what he wanted. It was settled that on the morrow provisions would be gathered and transportation organized, and the next day the more than three hundred Dorvali would leave for Chaldona. When the two masters had returned to their seats, Pol accepted the wine cup Meiglan handed him and drained it in two swallows.
“Well done, my lord,” she whispered.
She would think so. Dear, loyal, loving Meggie. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t understand.
• • •
In the event, it wasn’t necessary to steal Rinhoel’s dragon token. Mevita had one of her own: the gift Pol had sent on the birth of his namesake. Delicately wrought in silver, its hinged neck had unlatched to reveal a bracelet studded with amethysts. The jewels were back at Waes with everything except their wedding necklets, but the silver dragon gleamed from Mevita’s hand in the candlelit antechamber.
“This will do,” she said to Naydra and Cluthine. “I don’t want to make a thief of any of us.”
“Or get anyone caught.” The princess glanced nervously to the closed door. “Will this really work? Are you and Rialt sure about its being significant to the Vellant’im?”
“As sure as it’s possible to be without actually testing it.” Her thumb stroked the dragon’s back. “Rinhoel has one that he won’t let anyone near. Aurar wears one when she goes out riding—and we’re positive where she goes. It makes sense.”
“It does.” Cluthine took the token from her palm. “And we haven’t anything else to go on. I’ll leave tomorrow afternoon.”
Mevita sighed. “My husband is going to have me slain for this.”
“We’ve already had this argument,” Cluthine said impatiently. “Naydra’s not strong enough—”
“What you mean is I’m too old,” the princess corrected regretfully. “Twenty-two winters your senior, which ought to make me wise enough not to wish I could go in your place.”
“I’m the logical choice,” Mevita began.
“You have a child,” Cluthine interrupted. “Who do you suggest we send? Rialt? His outburst the night of the ritual made him too visible. Everyone’s watching him now to see what excitement he’ll provide next. No, it has to be me. There’s no one else.” She closed her fingers around the token.
Mevita nodded reluctantly. “We’ve been together in here too long. You leave first and look in on Polev. I’ll stay a while and tell Naydra everything Tilal must know. She can give you the particulars tomorrow morning, Thina, when you go shopping.”
Naydra was frowning. “You haven’t said how you’re going to get a horse from the stables and go out riding by yourself.”
“Aurar does it—and she’s not even a Lady of Meadowlord. I am. Prince Clutha was my grandfather. It’s about time I got some use of it.”
“Inheritance is a chancy thing,” Naydra remarked mildly. “Mine comes from High Princes and various athr’im of the Veresch—and I can’t say that I’ve ever gotten any use of it at all.”
• • •
Tobin was asleep. Chay listened to her even, steady breathing for a few moments, thinking that there was no sweeter sound in all the world, then quietly closed the bedchamber door and returned to the anteroom.
“Just as I left her,” he said to Betheyn, and lowered himself into a soft chair. “If I had any sense, I’d be tired enough to join her.”
“You’re overtired. Shall I ring for wine to help you relax?”
“No, but you can stay and talk to me for a while, daughter.”
Settling into a chair opposite his, she smiled her thanks for the fondness. “You miss that, don’t you? Sharing thoughts and ideas back and forth.”
“If not Tobin, then Rohan, and if not him, then Sioned. But it frustrates Tobin not to be able to talk as fluently as she used to. Rohan’s gone. And Sioned—” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I’d bother Maarken or Hollis, but they’re down at the garrison. So you’re the lucky victim, my dear.”
“That’s the second time you’ve used that word tonight. ‘Victim.’”
“Is it? I suppose so. Perhaps I feel that way myself. I’m too old for this, Beth. And. . . .” He struggled with it. “It’s just that everything is so dark. As if Rohan took all hope and light with him.” Shaking his head, he finished, “Forgive me. The self-pity of an old man who’s outlived his usefulness.”
“Nobody could have stopped Pol from saying what he did.” Beth toyed with the fringes of a cushion on her lap. “But he found some of the right words toward the end. He just needs time. His light is different from his father’s.”
“If he’d only stop trying to be his father. . . .”
“I think he’s starting to learn that he can’t. Didn’t Prince Rohan, when he first came to rule?”
Chay nodded, his eyes misty with reminiscence. “It’s been so long ago I’d forgotten. But Pol can’t afford to make mistakes. And he was trained from the beginning to be High Prince.”
“Maarken has always known he’d inherit your position as Battle Commander one day—but I doubt he ever thought he’d have to lead an army. Don’t tell him I said this, but I’m surprised he hasn’t made any serious mistakes.”
He snorted. “Maarken is an unnatural son. He and I think exactly alike. It’s the duty of the younger generation to flout its parents’ teachings and authority. Look at that idiot Ludhil, disobeying Chadric by chasing around their island being a soldier! What a miserable world it is that makes scholars saddle up for war.”
“From what Meath says he’s seen, Prince Ludhil isn’t doing too badly even though war isn’t what he was trained for.”
“But Pol was trained to be High Prince,” Chay repeated.
Beth was quiet for a few moments. “All he’s known is the power of it, until now.”
Chay grunted. “He and Rohan were barely on speaking terms half the autumn over power and its uses. Well, Pol has all the power now and he can do as he pleases with it.”
“But it’s so much easier to oppose a parent’s decisions than to decide on one’s own. Pol’s the authority now.”
“And he’s using it with all the obnoxious arrogance of a man who’s scared to death. I saw his face when my other son was mentioned. I only wish—” he began incautiously, and glanced away from her gentle face.
“It’s all right,” she murmured. “I wish Sorin were here, too.”
“He was the link between Andry and Pol,” Chay mused. “He loved them both, and they him. Goddess, if he were only alive—”
“They’d tear his heart out,” Beth replied quietly. “The way they’ll tear Maarken’s.”
Slumping farther into the chair, he propped an elbow on its arm and leaned his chin in his hand. “I shouldn’t say this, either, but fond as I am of Ruala, seeing you at the high table tonight I couldn’t help but think—”
She shook her head fiercely. “I know Meiglan meant well, but I wish sh
e hadn’t done it.”
“You would have graced Feruche as you have graced our lives at Radzyn,” Chay said with great tenderness. “You are my daughter no less than Hollis is. Sorin would have been a fool not to have loved you.”
• • •
The suite designed for the High Prince was Pol’s now, but the chambers allotted Sioned were nearly as sumptuous. It was the place Pol had stayed the last time he’d been here, during the days they’d mourned Sorin.
An airy solar with two walls of windows was flanked by two bedrooms. All was hung with bright tapestries, furnished in carved woods, decorated with elegant or useful or amusing trinkets. Pol waited in the solar for Meath to inform Sioned of his presence. It was late, and he knew that if she slept, he shouldn’t disturb her. But he needed to talk. He needed his mother—but he also needed the Sunrunner High Princess.
A tapestry depicting the Rialla when it had been held near Waes covered the western wall. He didn’t remember it from his previous visit; it must have been one of the things Sorin ordered but had not lived to see. Gazing at its bright chaos, the colored tents scattered around the river and the bridge leading to the Fair, Pol wondered if anyone would ever see the like again.
Meath returned, leaving the door to Sioned’s room open. “She says you ought to be in bed.”
“So should we all.” He didn’t comment on the fact that there was a cot set up in here, near the fire. Meath had obviously disdained the second bedroom, choosing instead to sleep where and as a guard would sleep. Pol’s gratitude was coupled with a kind of amused tenderness. There were no enemies at Feruche, no danger at all, yet Meath would keep anyone from getting in. Or perhaps, the thought occurred to him, perhaps he would keep Sioned from getting out. “I won’t stay. I just wanted to tell her that the Dorvali will be leaving soon.”
“We’ll need the space. Riyan will be back with his troops once he and Tallain crush those northern vermin.”
“Meath! You sound Desert-born and bred!”
The Sunrunner’s smile took twenty years from his face. “Thank you, my prince.”
Entering his mother’s room, he heard Meath close the door behind him and appreciated the privacy. Sioned sat at an oblong table beside night-blackened windows that reflected the candle branches at the bedside. She didn’t turn at the sound of his soft footsteps on the rug. Light spilled along her shoulders and back, picking out the swirls of the lace shawl she wore over her bedgown, shining on her shorn hair. He realized suddenly that he’d avoided looking at her because of it: almost impossible to connect his mother, the High Princess Sioned, with the sight of that cropped, curling hair.