Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll (62 page)

“You’ve made an open enemy. Is that preferable to the veneer of tolerance?”

“I’d rather have him an enemy everyone knows about rather than a pretended friend who might fool my
real
allies. They’ll beware of him now. And whenever he approaches any of the other princes, they’ll remember that he and I are opposed, and think twice about what he says. And aside from all that, would you really want Chiana on our border, scheming with Miyon against us? A woman whose very name means ‘treason’? There was nothing else I could do. I regret that you disapprove, but it was my decision to make, not yours.”

She was silent for a time, then shook her head. “I understand why you did it, Rohan. But I don’t like it that you used me. And you did, you know—and Tobin as well, having us work Miyon and Chiana to where you wanted them.”

Setting Chiana on Miyon had been Sioned’s idea. Rohan had neither encouraged it nor interfered; he had simply taken advantage of what she had done on her own. A pretty point of distinction, a sop to his conscience, that she would not appreciate. He was wise enough to keep his mouth shut about it. What he said was, “You’ve learned almost everything a prince needs to know in order to govern. But you have yet to learn that sometimes people have to be used.”

“I suppose it’s one of the things I didn’t learn from Andrade,” she said, quietly.

“She does it to perfection, with no regrets. It’s not particularly nice, and it’s certainly not noble or heroic. The difference between Andrade and me is that sometimes, like now, I hate things I’ve had to do. Oh, I admit I had a rollicking good time doing what I did to Roelstra my first
Rialla.
I enjoy gaming those too stupid to realize their own ambitions have led them along the path I want them to walk. I don’t regret Miyon at all, because he had to learn to bow to me. As for the rest of them—”

Sioned smiled slightly. “Let me guess. You wish they didn’t bow quite so low.”

He nodded. “It’s why I value Chale and Lleyn and Davvi. They bow right along with the rest, but they know why it’s necessary. The others just—do it.” He glanced at the water clock and sighed. “Over half the night gone. And tomorrow isn’t going to be pleasant at all.”

“Rohan . . .” She stood beside his chair and he circled her waist with gentle fingers. “Let me help you sleep, love. You need it.” When he smiled and shook his head, she went on, “But you’re exhausted. And so am I,” she added frankly. “I can’t sleep if you don’t. Just this once, Rohan. Indulge your
faradhi
wife and let her work a little magic on you.”

After a slight pause, he asked, “You will anyway, won’t you?”

“Well. . . .”

“Oh, all right. I’ve had enough for today, I suppose. And the only thing I lack is an argument from my stubborn witch.”

“You’re welcome,” she told him wryly, and he laughed.

A short while later they lay in each other’s arms beneath a light silk sheet and a loosely woven wool blanket. Sioned curled close to her husband’s side, her face bathed in thin moonlight drifting in through the screened window opening. She closed her eyes and threaded the delicate strands of silver into a soft net, placing it across Rohan. He sighed once, tense muscles relaxed, and in another moment was asleep.

She lay wakeful beside him until morning, listening to the steady, reassuring rhythm of breath and heartbeat that kept perfect time with her own.

 

Rohan looked at Andrade once, seeing her pen poised above the parchment, before he said, “His Grace of Cunaxa.”

Miyon stood, tall and lean and implacable. “I side with Prince Masul.”

Lleyn’s brows arched. The privileges of his great age and long years of rule allowed him to say, “The Lady Chiana will be disappointed.”

Miyon’s cheeks crimsoned. “I vote with my brains, cousin. Not my balls.”

“Indeed,” Lleyn murmured tolerantly.

Andrade made a mark on the parchment.

“His Grace of Ossetia.”

Chale pushed himself to his feet. “I say this young man is mistaken,” he growled, staring straight at Masul, who stood easy and relaxed near the water clock. “He’s no more Roelstra’s son than I am.”

“Brother,” Masul said, and gave Chale a small, mocking bow.

“Be silent,” Andrade snapped as she wrote.

“His Grace of Dorval.”

Lleyn took some time about rising, and leaned heavily on his dragon-headed cane. “I have watched and listened most carefully, as befits this weighty matter before us. I have seen no proof that the Lady Andrade and Princess-Regent Pandsala were misled in their perceptions of the night in question. Moreover, I have seen no compelling evidence that this youth is justified in his claims. I regret any pain this might cause him, but I must in all conscience decline to believe him.”

“His Grace of Grib,” Rohan said as Lleyn sat down and Andrade’s pen scratched again.

Velden was instantly up, his pose aggressive. “I must disagree with our cousin of Dorval. There is no proof to contradict the claim. He must be given the benefit of any doubts any of us may have. I for one have no doubts. The evidence is certain. I accept him as Roelstra’s son.”

“His Grace of Fessenden.”

Long, lanky, lazy-eyed Pimantal unfolded himself from his chair. “Prince Masul,” was all he said, with a slight bow in the young man’s direction.

Rohan wondered what Kiele had offered him as he watched Pimantal resume his seat. “His Grace of Syr.”

Davvi got up, leaning slightly forward with his knuckles resting on the table. “I agree with our cousins of Ossetia and Dorval, and for their reasons. But I have another reason. Even if this man were Roelstra’s son, and even if I were convinced of it, Princemarch was long ago won by all the rights of war, confirmed by law. I gained Syr in much the same way. It is true that I was the only male heir left of the Syrene house. But my claim rests on precisely the same rights of war as the claim to Princemarch. If this assembly chooses to violate its own agreement of the spring of 705, that acknowledged High Prince Rohan’s rights of possession, then—” He swept the gathering with cool green eyes, “—then I assure you that the same principle, or
lack
of it, will hold true for me.”

As astounded as the rest of them, shock betrayed Rohan into exclaiming, “Davvi!”

Sioned’s brother met his gaze calmly. “I knew you wouldn’t agree with this, Rohan. But believe me when I say that if a princedom won and lawfully confirmed can be so easily taken away and given to another, then I and mine will have no dealings with princes.” He sat down.

It took Rohan a moment to recover. But his voice was firm as he said, “His Grace of Kierst.”

Volog levered himself up, cast a piercing glance at Masul, and said, “I’ll take good governance and peace, demonstrated these many years, over this unknown farmhand who hasn’t convinced me of anything but his colossal arrogance.”

Miyon of Cunaxa stiffened with insult. “Have a care, cousin,” he said tightly. “You will be seated at this table with him before the day ends.”

Volog gave a bark of laughter. “Not damned likely, boy!”

“My lord,” Rohan murmured in warning. “His Grace of Gilad.”

He wondered for an instant if Princess Kenza had managed to nag her husband into shaking off Miyon’s influence. But Cabar stood, gulped, and mumbled words agreeing with their graces of Cunaxa, Grib, and Fessenden. As he sat and Andrade’s pen rasped on parchment, Rohan turned his gaze momentarily to Saumer of Isel. His was the only vote still in doubt. Some perverse sense of the dramatic within him made him call on Clutha of Meadowland next, and the tension drew out a little finer, a little tauter.

The old man stood. “I say our cousin of Kierst has spoken most wisely of all. But, like our cousin of Syr, I have another reason, too. For longer than I care to recall, my land has been the battleground between the Desert and Princemarch. In the past fifteen years I’ve gotten used to peace. I don’t intend to jeopardize it—because if any of you think that giving Princemarch to this boy will be as easy as all that, you’re sadly mistaken. And who’d pay for it in burned fields and dead people? Me, that’s who! I spent my childhood and youth and middle age watching armies lay waste to my meadows. I’ll not have it in my dotage as well. No, thank you!” He plunked back down into his chair and turned his scowling attention to his hands.

Five against, four in favor. Rohan turned to Saumer. “His Grace of Isel.”

Volog’s erstwhile enemy, grandfather with him of their mutual heir, rose reluctantly to his feet. “Cousins,” he said, his voice heavy and strained, “I have considered this matter, as all of you have, with the whole of my mind and my heart. I do not agree with previous statements about evidence. I have seen no evidence one way or the other that convincingly refutes or proves either side. But I ask this. What right does a man have to his lands?

“The High Prince, while still in possession only of the Desert, quite rightly and wisely stated that in order to rule effectively, he had to know what he was prince of. We spent much time and effort uncovering precedent for holding our lands, and the treaties drawn up were of great satisfaction to all.

“And yet—if precedent and traditional right to what we hold is the highest law, where does that leave possession by right of war? If that is the paramount law, then we would all be at each other’s throats—as in the past.” He flicked a glance at Volog, who gave him stare for stare.

“If a man has the right to his lands, then he has the right to give them to his son. Usually the eldest, and one born of his wife’s body—but there are several instances in the recent past of a younger son or an illegitimate one inheriting. If we take away that right, and if we decide that war is the more legitimate means of gaining a princedom or a holding, then we announce chaos and we might as well gird ourselves for battle here and now. For none of us will be secure in what we hold, from prince to most obscure
athri.
”

He paused a long moment, then shook his head. “I do not disbelieve the Lady Andrade and the Princess-Regent. I do not disbelieve this young man before us now. But I do believe in the law, and in my own conscience. And both tell me that Princemarch by rights belongs to the son of the late High Prince Roelstra.” He cast a quick glance around the table again, and sat down.

Rohan held in the long sigh that wanted to escape his chest, kept back the twist of bitter disappointment that threatened his lips. Saumer was not trying to spite Volog or anyone else; he was honest in his misgivings and in his beliefs. Actually, Rohan told himself with grim humor, he ought to be cheering the words that had come from Saumer’s mouth: “I do believe in the law.” He’d been working to instill those words and that belief in his fellow princes for over twenty years. And what a time to succeed!

Andrade broke the silence with a rustle of parchment. “The count is as follows. Ossetia, Dorval, Syr, Kierst, and Meadowlord against; Cunaxa, Gilad, Grib, Fessenden, and Isel for.” She lifted her gaze from her notes. “My lords, it appears we have a deadlock.”

Rohan did not meet her eyes, knowing what he would find in them. Masul was chewing his lip, the fingers of one hand drumming on the carved wooden support of the water clock.

At last Rohan got up, consciously drawing all eyes to him. “My lords, it is as the Lady has said. Both sides lack a majority. Firon being without a prince, and both myself and the Princess-Regent being obviously disqualified, I can see few ways of breaking this deadlock.”

All of them sat up straighter at his implication, but it was Masul who voiced their question. “What do you mean?” When someone sucked in an outraged breath at his peremptory tone, he added, “My lord.”

“I mean there are alternatives. Such proofs as are readily available have been presented, and have failed to convince one way or the other. But . . .”

He finally looked at his aunt. She nodded slowly, placing her long hands with their ten rings and gleaming bracelets on the table before her.

“What is it, my Lady?” Lleyn asked, his voice soft.

She answered, “The
faradh’im
have certain skills not generally known among the populace—or, indeed, among most
faradh’im
themselves. Some of us are able to catch quite detailed visions of the future, for instance.”

Miyon leaned back in his chair with an angry gesture of one hand. “Your pardon, my Lady, but surely you don’t propose to show us what the world would be like with Prince Masul at Castle Crag? I never heard of anything so—”

Andrade continued as if he had not spoken. “I have done such things myself, my lords. But what is relevant to us at present is something else. The past—and specifically that night twenty-one years ago—is in my memory. Using certain . . . techniques . . . I will be able to conjure that past for all of you to watch with your own eyes. It is a difficult thing, and possibly a dangerous one. But those of you who do not believe
me
will, I think, believe the evidence I will present before you.”

“And why should we believe this—or even allow it?” Velden exclaimed. “I’ve never heard of this supposed ability, either! Why should it be trusted?”

“You dare question the Lady’s word?” Lleyn asked, his eyes like thunder.

“Peace, my friend,” Andrade said. “He has every right to question. Would it satisfy you, Prince Velden, if I first conjured a scene from the past that you and I both witnessed?”

Cabar stared slack-jawed; Miyon was anxious and trying to hide it; Masul’s lip curled scornfully. Pimantal looked intrigued, and Saumer, hopeful. He said, “If it will settle our doubts and if it is not too dangerous for you—”

“It probably is,” she said with a shrug. “But I consider this person more so.” She fixed Masul with a sardonic eye. “Well? Are you secure enough in your claim of truth to have the truth revealed to you through Sunrunner arts?”

“In which I have very little faith,” he shot back. “But if their graces wish it, then why not?” He smiled.