Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll (42 page)

“Oh, Naydra—please, don’t. I’m only sorry we weren’t able to do the same for all your sisters.”

“Yes—marriages that would have come to Rusalka, Cipris, and Pavla, had they lived. There are few of us left now. Myself and Pandsala, Kiele, Moria, Moswen, Danladi. . . .” Naydra glanced up and shrugged. “The latter three have avoided marriage, you know. Not because they lack suitors or dower, but because betrothal seems to be dangerous for Roelstra’s daughters. And Rabia’s death in childbed after two normal birthings was a shock. I nearly died, too, you know, miscarrying my poor baby.” The princess looked directly at Sioned for a long moment, then away. “It’s almost as if there’s a curse on us and our children.”

The servant came then with Naydra’s wine, giving Sioned time to mull over the catalog of sisters and the strange conclusion Naydra had drawn. When the servant had left them, Sioned asked carefully, “What are you trying to tell me, my lady?”

“Nothing, your grace. It only makes me sad.” But again Naydra met her gaze in uncharacteristically direct fashion. “With your permission, I will attend my lord.” With a small, graceful nod, she moved away.

Sioned smoothed the frown from her forehead but could not stop thinking about what Naydra had said. Perhaps the princess was still grieving over the loss of the only child she would ever carry—Sioned understood that only too well, for her own miscarriages still haunted her. But Naydra had seemed to imply something else. A curse on Roelstra’s daughters and their children—ridiculous, the kind of thing reasonable people knew to be mere superstition. Rabia’s three daughters were perfectly healthy, and Kiele had a fine son and daughter. And Ianthe—Sioned sipped at her wine to wash away the bitter taste that always came with the thought of Pol’s mother. A curse; what nonsense.

Still, she mused as she joined Lleyn, Chale, and Clutha, out of eighteen daughters born to Roelstra and his various ladies, only seven were still alive.

It was only then that she realized that in her catalog of sisters, Naydra had not included Chiana.

 

Sioned was awakened early the next morning by shouted greetings, clanking harness, and her husband’s demands to know why his lazy wife was so late abed. She barely remembered to grab a robe and fling it on as she went flying out of the pavilion and into his embrace.

“Rohan—oh, love, I’ve missed you!” She locked her arms around him and buried her face in his neck. He smelled of healthy sweat, leather, and horse—a lovely stink as far as she was concerned.

“Father of Storms, woman, let me breathe! And get some clothes on, you’re making a spectacle of yourself!” He laughed, hugging her tighter to his chest.

“Oh, shut up,” she said, and effectively prevented further scolding by claiming his lips with her own. When she considered him to be thoroughly greeted, she drew back and asked, “Now I’ve made a spectacle of us both—as if you cared!”

“I’m surprised the whole camp hasn’t lined up to watch.” He kissed her again.

Maarken nudged Pol. “Hurry, get everybody here and we can sell tickets—two coins a head and split the profits fifty-fifty!”

Rohan released her and she turned to her son. There was something older about his smile, reflecting what had happened to him during the summer they had been apart. And surely he was taller. She held out her arms and he came forward, and she pressed her cheek to his sunny hair. When he wriggled slightly—young enough still to want a hug, but old enough to be conscious of his dignity—she let him go and saw Pandsala standing silent and watchful nearby. Sioned smiled at the princess.

“What in the world have you been feeding him at Castle Crag? He’s gotten taller—grown right out of his tunic!”

Pandsala’s eyes lit with humor and she came forward to touch hands with Sioned. “Fresh mountain air and sunshine will do that, your grace. I’m pleased to see you.”

“And I you, and looking so well—especially after hosting my hatchling.” She eyed Pol. “Have you caused her grace any trouble?”

“He was a joy to have with us,” Pandsala said softly. “All of Princemarch was reluctant to part with him.”

Pol looked so smug that Sioned decided his dignity required a little salutory teasing. “No pranks, no escapades, no disobedience? I don’t believe it! You must tell me your secret for turning him into a rational being with manners, Pandsala.”

“Mother!” Pol protested, and Sioned laughed. “I was a very good guest!”

“He was indeed, your grace,” Pandsala seconded.

“She can tell you all about it once we’ve been made comfortable,” Rohan said pointedly. “I assume you’re about to offer everyone a bath, a bed, and breakfast while Pandsala’s tents are set up?”

“All begun the instant you finally showed your noses,” she assured him, then turned to the regent. “Princess Tobin has offered her tent for your comfort. You’ll probably want to rest while Ostvel and your steward supervise your camp.”

“Thank you, your grace. That would be most welcome.” She bowed and withdrew, accompanied by a waiting-woman who hovered at her side.

Maarken then came forward to greet Sioned. “Has Andrade arrived yet?” he whispered in her ear.

“Later today, perhaps tomorrow. And I haven’t forgotten our wager.” She drew away and smiled at him. “Your parents will want to see you at once. And Sorin’s been by several times from Volog’s tents, asking when you’d arrive.”

“Sorin? Oh—of course! He’s to be knighted in a few days.” Maarken turned to a squire. “Find my brother at the Kierstian tents, please, and tell him I’ll be with our parents.” To Sioned, he went on, “We’ll all dine together tonight?”

“Naturally.” Maarken strode off and Sioned waved her husband and son into the pavilion. “Baths and food for both of you, and then a rest.”

“But I’m not tired, Mother.”

“You will be.”

A short while later, the promised hot bath and breakfast proved her correct. Pol yawned his way into the portion of the huge tent sectioned off for his bedchamber, and Rohan shared a smile with his wife.

“Are you always right?”

“Not always—but I’m
never
wrong.”

He snorted. “And if you are, you don’t admit it.”

“Neither do you.” She refilled their cups with steaming hot taze and leaned back in her chair, set opposite his at the desk. “Maarken kept me informed, of course, but I want to hear it all from you.”

Rohan smiled. “Pandsala wasn’t just being polite, you know. I think everybody who met Pol wanted to take him home!”

“Just as I expected. Tell me about the vassals.”

“There aren’t many. Roelstra took most of Princemarch into his own hands, so the holdings are run by glorified stewards, not
athri’im.
There are four exceptions. My favorite is Lord Garic of Elktrap Manor. He’s a crafty old soul—waited out Roelstra, hiding most of his wealth, with the result that his two pretty granddaugh ters are dowered like princesses.”

“Mmm. Speaking of princesses and dowries. . . .” She told him about her conversation with Davvi and her solution to his problem.

“Very astute of you, love. Chale can probably use the comfort Gemma’s presence will give him.” He rubbed his forehead wearily. “What news should I know about?”

Sioned detailed what she knew, what she suspected, and what was currently rumored. Rohan listened in impassive silence to the long recital, and at last nodded slowly.

“Something interesting happened the day before we left. Pandsala has been scouring Princemarch since spring for any word about this pretender. As it happens, he grew up at Dasan Manor, and his name is Masul. Lord Emlys of Dasan was long gone from Castle Crag with the other vassals and stewards by the time word came, so we couldn’t question him. Pandsala’s informant says that Masul vanished about the end of spring with a little money, the clothes on his back, a sword, and Emlys’ best horse. The horse turned up in Einar, of all places. But Masul is already in Waes, I’d bet anything on it.”

“What do they say about him? Is it possible he’s Roelstra’s son?”

Rohan stretched the tension from his shoulders and Sioned went to stand behind him, rubbing the strong taut muscles. “Ahh . . . that’s wonderful. They say the boy is tall, with dark hair and green eyes. Lived with his grandparents at Dasan. Their daughters were in service at Castle Crag, one of them as nursemaid to Kiele and Lamia. And now you tell me Kiele is circulating word that this Masul just may be her brother. An interesting connection, don’t you think?”

“Her invitation to Chiana becomes clear, too. You know how we wondered about that all summer. They’ve never been fond of each other, especially since Chiana tried to seduce Lyell. Kiele’s going to pay her back with public humiliation.”

“Roelstra’s daughters are such delightful women.” Rohan murmured.

“Now, I’ve always liked Naydra and so have you. I was talking to her last evening, and she said the oddest thing. We spoke of her sisters and—”

“Sioned? Rohan?” Tobin peeked around the partition. “Your son claims he’s about to expire of starvation and asks can we please eat now? I must say I agree with him. It’s noon.”

“Have we been talking that long?” Rohan asked, surprised. “And when did Pol sneak out of here?”

“After lunch, you’re going to bed,” Sioned told him.

“All alone?” He pulled a forlorn face.

“You don’t have the energy to do me justice,” she said, laughing. “Besides, I’ve got a surprise planned for later. Get what sleep you can, because you won’t get any tonight.”

“You have a way of making a threat sound absolutely delightful.”

Late that night they saw their resentful but obedient son tucked up in bed and left the pavilion. Guards trained by Maeta in the arts of protecting irreplaceable princes were on duty; Pol was safe. The family had drunk to Maeta that night at dinner after Maarken and Pol had told them of the manner of her death. When they returned to the Desert, the rest of her ashes would be scattered on wind summoned by the
faradhi
princess she had served—and the young, untrained
faradhi
prince she had given her life to protect. Pol’s education would begin early so that he might perform this service for his kinswoman.

Sioned would teach him, and she cared not a damn what Andrade thought of it.

“Where are you taking me?” Rohan asked as they strolled the riverbank past the bridge.

“Back twenty years,” she replied, leaning her head on to his shoulder. “You’ve just done something dreadfully heroic by saving me from the evil clutches of an infamous seducer—”

“Heroic, eh?” Rohan laughed. “And we’re about to anticipate our marriage vows by several days, is that it?” He held her closer to his side. “I thought I loved you then. It was nothing compared to now.”

“You haven’t lost your romantic impulses,” she approved, and conjured up a tiny flame on the damp grass ahead of them, gentle light that limned the shape of a willow tree. Parting its branches, she revealed the snug den she had created the afternoon before, over which a bemused guard had kept watch until tonight.

Rohan slid inside and Sioned followed after damping the little Fire. “It’s considerably more welcoming than last time,” he commented, patting the blankets spread on the ground. “As I recall, we had to use your skirt for a bed.” He reached over and fingered the two glasses and bottle nestled against the willow’s trunk. “And you accused
me
of being a romantic!” The faint light of moons and stars filtered through the silver-green canopy of leaves around them, touching his face with cool, soft fire. Sioned took his hands, held them to her cheeks, turned her head to kiss each palm.

“I love you,” Rohan said.

Their lips met and they sank down onto the blanket, content for a long while simply to kiss one another. Sioned lost herself in the warmth of his arms, the wine; on his tongue, the delicate nuances of his mouth on her own. Bones melting, sweet weakness stealing through her veins, cherished familiar ache growing in her body, she glimpsed in memory the shy youth who had first made love to her beneath this willow tree, and smiled against his lips.

P
rince Volog of Kierst was Sioned’s cousin, a fact no one would have cared about had she remained an obscure Sunrunner at Goddess Keep. But she had married Rohan, who had become High Prince; events had made her brother Prince of Syr. Thus Volog found himself blood-bonded to some very important people.

He was wise enough—and proud enough—neither to ask favors nor to trade on the relationships. There was no need to do either. His position and his possessions made the bond one Rohan was pleased to acknowledge to their mutual advantage. In his turn, Volog found Rohan a pleasant friend and a helpful kinsman. He did not resent the chance that had given Sioned their grandmother’s
faradhi
gifts instead of himself, for he was that rare man who held onto what was his, appreciated what life gave him, and did not extend himself beyond his known limitations.