Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll (60 page)

“Not many ladies
could,
” her son pointed out. “But you can.”

She eyed him narrowly. “Are you learning your father’s ways of sweet-talking me, or did you borrow that from the merchant?”

“Mother! It’s only the truth!”

Sioned disappeared behind the partition and hauled off her plain summer gown. “Goddess, I hope it fits!” A few wriggling moments later she emerged and twirled around on her toes. “Well? What do you think?”

Another voice spoke from the doorway. “I think my son has definitely inherited my exquisite taste,” Rohan said. He came in and ruffled Pol’s hair playfully, smiling. But neither gesture nor smile could disguise the exhaustion and anxiety in his eyes.

“You’re back early,” Sioned ventured.

“And a good thing, too—if I’d seen that for the first time before the banqueting, you’d have to spend half the night reviving me. Is this your design, Pol?”

“It’s like dresses the village girls wear on Dorval. I guess the merchant thought the style would suit Mother.”

“I’d say he was right. Although you’ll never be able to wear it in daytime at Stronghold, Sioned. With that low front you’d get sunburned instantly.”

“Front? Take a look at the back!” She spun around to show him how much of her spine was revealed. “And you can’t tell me that any modest village maiden on Dorval wears anything like this!”

“Well, there’s more material to their dresses, of course,” Pol said, grinning. “But they aren’t princesses, either.”

Sioned smoothed the silk down her ribs, over the dropped waistline and tightly fitted yoke at the hips. “I won’t be able to eat a thing from now until the Lastday banquet or I’ll never get back into this,” she mourned. “And if I eat that night, I’ll pop all the stitches.”

She disappeared to take off the gown and fold it into its silk wrappings again. When she rejoined them, Rohan had lowered himself into a chair with his head leaned back, eyes closed. She exchanged a worried glance with Pol.

“Father, is it true that you helped arrange things between Aunt Tobin and Uncle Chay?”

One blue eye opened to regard Pol. “Well, in a manner of speaking.”

“And Walvis helped you and Mother?”

“Yes.”

Sioned poured cool drinks, asking. “What is all this in aid of?”

“Well . . . I think I’ve done something similar, in a way.” Pol’s face was pensive, but there was a telltale gleam dancing in his eyes.

“For whom?” Rohan opened both curious eyes.

“I hope it’s all right—there’s not much anybody can do about it now, anyway. It just sort of happened today.”

“Who are you talking about?” Sioned asked. “We know about Hollis and Maarken, but they’re the only ones of our immediate family who’re—”

“It’s not Hollis and Maarken,” Pol said.

“Then
who?
” Rohan demanded.

“Tilal and Gemma.” Pol shrugged, keeping an admirably straight face as his parents gaped. “It took a while, but I finally got them to see the obvious. I hope nobody minds too much. I mean, Kostas does, but that’s his problem, not ours, right? And what he really wanted was Ossetia, not her. Tilal was pretty stupid about not wanting to ask her now that she’s Prince Chale’s heir, but I persuaded him to start talking.” Pol sighed. “Once he did, he didn’t shut up. They’ve loved each other all this time, can you believe it? She was too proud to say anything to him, and he wanted to make River Run the richest holding in all Syr before he asked her. And neither said a word about it. But that’s not the problem now. For all I know, they’re still out there talking each other’s ears off!”

“Tilal?” Sioned managed.

“And Gemma?” Rohan was still staring.

Pol began to laugh. “They were so funny! Promise me that when I fall in love with a girl, if I start acting that stupid you’ll tell me before I make such a fool of myself!”

N
o one said a word about Tilal and Gemma. No one had to. The couple’s appearance at Clutha’s outdoor feast that evening fairly trumpeted their Choosing of each other. Inseparable, insulated from everything by their own private weave of happiness, it was doubtful they knew anyone else existed.

Davvi looked utterly blissful in his relief. Chale seemed to be getting used to the idea. It was remarked on—quietly—that Kostas was conspicuous in his absence.

The tables were packed with highborns, some of them in nearly Tilal’s and Gemma’s state, for over the last days understandings had been reached between many couples. One pair, however, sat apart from each other, the man’s face grim, the woman’s pale and strained. Beside him were his younger brothers—and beside her was a black-haired youth with eyes the color of new leaves in shadow.

Andry worried about Maarken and Hollis, but someone else took up most of his attention. Princess Alasen was four tables away from him, surrounded by eligible young men whose enthusiasm for her company was strictly observed—and occasionally quelled—by her father. Glimpses of her through flowers and chattering faces did unaccountable things to Andry’s heartbeat and respiration. He did not understand what was wrong with him that he had so little interest in the dishes set before him—not even the gorgeous tower of spun sugar and pastry studded with candied fruits that was presented for dessert. Maarken, deep in his own melancholy thoughts, did not notice, but Sorin did—and found his twin a dull companion indeed.

Chiana’s laughter dominated her table. She had good reason for high spirits. Halian sat on one side of her, Miyon on the other, and Masul was way over on the other side of the gathering, seated with Kiele, Lyell, Velden, Cabar, and Cabar’s disgruntled-looking wife, Kenza.

Presiding over a quiet table of older princes was Lady Andrade, Urival at her side as always, her austere demeanor softened a little by being in relatively undemanding company. Prince Lleyn even made her laugh a few times. Nearby were Ostvel, Riyan, Chay, and Tobin, trading tales of Pol with Audrite and Chadric. The boy himself sat between his parents at a table with Pandsala, Milosh of Fessenden and Lord Kolya; the two young men scarcely dared to breathe in the presence of the High Prince. Other highborns were scattered about, the conversational level rose and fell with innocuous regularity—and no one said anything about what was on all minds.

The whole evening was driving Sioned just the slightest bit mad.

She knew what the faces were hiding. Rohan’s early adjournment of the princes’ meeting had come because Velden had insisted on a vote regarding Masul’s right to Princemarch. It was Saumer of Isel who had proposed another day of waiting. The prince was genuinely troubled, but there was no way of knowing whether he wanted time to be persuaded or if he wished to marshal his arguments. Rohan was distracted with worry that Volog had not been able to convince Saumer—or, worse, that his grace of Kierst had somehow offended his grace of Isel, and the latter would vote for Masul just to spite the lifelong rival he had been forced to work with these last years.

The decision would be rendered the next day. Everyone knew it. And no one said a word about it.

Unbeknownst to her son, who would have stared open-mouthed if he’d realized it, Sioned’s mood was a fair approximation of what had that morning prompted Pol to give his little demonstration of
faradhi
skills. There was a growing need in her to do something, anything, to take those polite masks off princely faces. She wanted to remind them of the powers she and Rohan held between them, powers that Pol would wield on his own. She craved their widened eyes, their awe, and even their fear of a Sunrunner Princess—and the Sunrunner who would one day be High Prince.

Goddess be thanked, the dinner ended early. After the morning wine-heads that had followed on Rohan’s dinner the night before, no one was willing to repeat the experience—especially not with such an important vote coming on the morrow. Sioned herself wanted nothing more than sleep—a thing she knew would be in vanishingly short supply. So when Tobin asked her company for a cup of hot taze after the meal, they both knew it was really an excuse for staying up all night talking.

Rohan returned alone to the pavilion, leaving Pol under the watchful eyes of Maarken and Ostvel. Along with Riyan, Sorin, and Andry, they had accepted Volog’s invitation to listen to a little music before bedtime, and as Rohan settled in at his desk he could just catch the sweet sound of a flute. He enjoyed music, but counted it no deprivation that his education in the subject was sparse. His mother, loving music, had despaired of her children ever learning a note, and rightly so; neither he nor Tobin could so much as hum on key. Pol, on the other hand, had a real affinity for singing, and after a time Rohan thought he heard his son’s voice doubling Ostvel’s. He glanced up, surprised. Ostvel’s talent was rarely displayed, and never outside Skybowl or Stronghold, and then only after entreaties amounting almost to direct orders from his prince. How odd it was that he had been prevailed upon now.

Rohan was perusing trade agreements when a rider came in with reports from the Desert. Grateful to have his mind distracted from the problems of the
Rialla,
he attended first to Feylin’s news about the dragons. She had spent the summer watching them and compiling population projections based on the number of hatchlings flown this year, and was pleased to inform the High Prince that the news was heartening. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, the dragons would hold steady in their numbers. There remained the problem of finding more caves so that the population could increase, but for now they were safe.

The news from Walvis and Eltanin in Tiglath was just as good. Desert troops were working well with those from Princemarch. Friendly competition in the arts of swordplay, archery, and horsemanship had seen many new tricks learned on both sides. Those of the Desert were better riders, but hunters from the Veresch did things with arrows that Walvis would have sworn were impossible had he not seen them with his own eyes. There was an amusing postscript to the effect that several men and women would be petitioning for a change in residence soon, for close proximity had accomplished the usual. Some twenty or so marriages were in the offing.

Thus it was that Rohan was smiling when Tallain approached him in the private section of the pavilion. “Ah, now, not more dispatches, I hope. Lady Feylin writes a clear hand, your father has the decency to employ a scribe—but Lord Walvis’ scrawl has nearly blinded me!”

Tallain grinned. “No, my lord, no more parchments to read. You have a visitor. He calls himself High Lord Steward to Prince Miyon of Cunaxa.”

Rohan’s brows shot up. “How long have you kept him waiting?”

“The usual, my lord. Shall I admit him now?”

“Do that. When are their graces of Syr and Ossetia due to arrive?”

“Shortly, I believe. If your talk with this steward is overlong, I’ll direct them to the antechamber, my lord.”

“Excellent. Oh, by the way, Tallain, your father sent a note for you with his letter.” He tossed the sealed parchment at the youth, who caught it eagerly. “All’s going very well indeed at Tiglath. A rider will start back tomorrow morning, so you can include a letter to your father if you like.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Tallain tucked the note away in his tunic. “Shall I admit the steward now? And will you want fresh wine?”

Rohan winked. “I think the man is rather more hungry than he is thirsty. Give me a moment, then let him in.”

The squire smoothed the grin from his face, bowed, and left. Rohan relaxed back in his chair. He had a fair idea of the reason for Miyon’s emissary, and was definitely looking forward to it.

Soon he was observing the barely polite bow of a short, chubby gentleman whose heavy beard and long hair all but concealed his face. Only the eyes—dark, shrewd, and watchful—were clearly visible. Many charming sentiments were expressed; wishes were given for the continued good health and happiness of the High Prince, High Princess, and their noble heir; Rohan received it all with a bland smile and did not ask the steward to sit down.

“If I may make so bold, High Prince—my exalted master is curious about the arrangements made for the youngest of Roelstra’s daughters.”

“The Princess Chiana?” Rohan asked, deliberately giving the girl the title to which she had no right. He decided to be obtuse for a while. “I understand she lives with various of her sisters, and at present resides with Lady Kiele here in Waes.”

The steward bowed again, eyes signaling that he comprehended Rohan’s ploy. “Perhaps I should amplify. My master is interested in whatever arrangements have been made for her future.”

“She’s free to go wherever she chooses and live as she likes.”

“Your grace, I find it difficult to communicate with suitable delicacy the true nature of my master’s curiosity.”

“Then perhaps you ought to be indelicate about it,” Rohan suggested affably, enjoying himself.

“Not to wrap it in too fine a silk, your grace—how is she dowered?”