Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire (11 page)

Sionell stared. “With a bow-legged, thick-ankled, witless shatter-skull?”

“I agree, Ell. Pol has better taste,” Rohan said. “But maybe you’ve got something, Walvis. Which of Miyon’s allies have daughters, sisters, or cousins around Pol’s age? Pretty ones, I mean. An interesting idea.” Rising, he stretched and yawned. “That’s all for this evening’s meeting of the informal High Prince’s Council,” he smiled. “Hollis, with your permission I’ll join you in tucking Chayla and Rohannon into bed—
again.
”

“You’re welcome to try.” She grimaced. “Thank the Goddess dragons don’t fly over Whitecliff more often. It took both their nurses plus Pol’s poor steward to catch my twin terrors today.”

Sionell went upstairs to her room, escorted partway by Tallain. She had finished unplaiting her hair and was brushing it out for the night when her father came in, looking very thoughtful. After asking permission to be seated—even in a room he himself inhabited, the good manners learned as Rohan’s squire stayed with him—he settled in a chair and meditatively stroked his beard.

“What is it, Papa?” she asked at last.

“I don’t quite know how to begin,” he said with a bemused smile. His blue eyes narrowed slightly as he watched her tease tangles with the brush. He had given her those eyes, but she more closely resembled her mother and had Feylin’s dark red hair. “You’ve spent more time at Radzyn and Stronghold than at home these last couple of years. I suppose I haven’t really noticed that you’ve grown up.”

“Surprise,” she smiled.

“Rather! I like the way you’ve turned out—though I miss my pudgy little pest,” he added, his smile becoming a grin.

Until last winter, Sionell had despaired of ever acquiring a waistline. Desert dwellers tended to be vain about their slim figures. In Gilad, a comfortably rounded woman was much preferred over a slender one—but Sionell no longer had to wish she lived in Gilad.

“I suppose there’s no way to get around it,” her father sighed. “I wanted to talk to you about Pol.”

She felt her cheeks burn. “A childish habit I’ve grown out of.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” She’d have to, sooner or later.

“You’re very young, darling. I thought this might be the case. It would hurt your mother and me to see you dream after a man who can marry whom he chooses—as long as his Choice is highborn and
faradhi.
”

“I know.”

“I needed to be sure because of something that happened tonight.”

He was watching her in a way that made her want to squirm. Thinking over the conversation at dinner and afterward, she remembered her outburst regarding Miyon’s half-sister and blushed again.

Walvis was quick to see it. “So you have an idea about it already. I’m glad. He’s a worthy man, and a good friend. He quite rightly asked permission to begin a formal courtship. But I told him I’d have to consult you first. As fine a man as he is, and as good a husband as he’d make you, I wouldn’t give my consent even to Tallain if you were still—”

The brush dropped to the rug.

“So you
didn’t
know.”

Her wits reeled like hatchling dragons darting through the sky.
Tallain?

“He admires you and would like to know you better. Give you the chance to know him. If you both like what you see, and can love each other, then your mother and I would be very happy with the Choice.”

Humiliating that her first coherent thought was:
I could have him if I wanted—that’d show Pol!

“He wants to spend part of the winter at Stronghold so he can visit Remagev every so often. He won’t rush you, love. He knows you’re only seventeen, and certainly by next
Rialla
you’ll have an even wider choice of young men than you did this year.”

And there had been plenty—but Tallain had not been among them. He had danced with her only once. Shyness? She doubted it. Fear of competition? Not with those eyes and that hair and that face—not to mention all that money. Abruptly his words about the riches to be obtained from Cunaxan merchants took on new meaning and she almost giggled. Subtle of him, to indicate he didn’t need her dowry. More seriously, she realized that he didn’t need her family’s connection to the High Prince, either. If he Chose her, it would be for herself alone. Sionell was forced to admire his tactics. And his wits. And his sense of humor. And his looks.

He wasn’t Pol—but no man could be. And Pol would never be hers.

With a suddenness that stopped her breath for a moment she recalled the previous afternoon’s conversation with Pol.
He knows—that’s why he said all those things about Tallain—trying to get me married off!

Her father was talking again, a bit nervously as she stayed silent. “Think it over for now, Ell. You don’t have to decide yet. There’s plenty of time.”

“I don’t need any time,” she heard herself say. “Tallain can come visit me if he likes.” After a brief pause, her lips curving slightly, she added, “But we don’t need to tell
him
that just yet.”

Walvis blinked, then burst out laughing. “You’d keep him guessing until the moment you accept him, wouldn’t you?”

Sionell answered only with a shrug, but she was thinking,
Yes, and if he thinks he has to work harder to win me, we’ll probably both fall in love. Nothing so interesting as someone unattainable, as I well know. But if I do marry Tallain, it’ll be because I can make a life with him.
She had a brief vision of Pol hurrying to join the flirtatious maidservant. He’d look at every woman in the world but her. She’d known that since childhood. But now she believed it.

Walvis rose and ruffled her hair as if she were still ten, saying she was too clever for her own good. Then he went back downstairs to persuade Feylin to leave her musings about the dragon population and come up to bed.

Sionell smoothed and rebraided her hair with automatic movements. If not Tallain, then someone else. But she did like him. And it was soothing to be admired by a handsome, wealthy young lord.

“Lady Sionell of Tiglath,” she whispered. Then, even more softly: “High Princess Sionell.”

No decisions tonight, except the one allowing Tallain to try. But if he was as she believed him to be, then it wouldn’t be difficult to love him. Not as she loved—
had
loved—Pol, of course. Tallain would know that. But he would never say anything about it, no more than Ostvel ever said anything to Alasen about Andry.

And it was very nice to be wanted. Very nice indeed.

A
utumn was breathlessly hot in Meadowlord. Nothing moved. Swollen gray clouds neither blew away nor rained nor seemed able to do anything but loiter. Even the mighty Faolain River lay sluggish just outside the city walls, as if reluctant to flow. The stillness would break soon. But until it did, even walking through the stifling air was an effort.

If autumn affected Swalekeep’s population, who were used to it this way, it was even worse for visitors. Two such, longing for the Veresch Mountains where they made their home, dragged themselves from their beds at the Green Feather Inn, hoping for some vague coolness in the dawn.

“Hideous climate,” the old woman muttered. “How do these people bear it?”

Her companion, a tall young man with copper-threaded brown hair and intensely blue eyes, bent a sardonic glance on her and made no comment.

“And so many of them,” she went on. “All jammed together—it’s not natural to live like this, Ruval.”

Still he said nothing, knowing as well as she the history of Swalekeep. The warrior who had originally set himself up as lord of the general vicinity had built the first part of a defensive castle, to which his heirs had added as need or whimsy prompted. Swalekeep’s population had swelled periodically as Meadowlord’s powerful neighbors treated the princedom as their private battlefield and refugees swarmed in. Eventually a Prince of Meadowlord, weary and impoverished by the sporadic influx of mouths to feed, decreed that enough was enough and built a wall higher than a dragon’s wingspan around his holding. During High Prince Roelstra’s last war with Prince Zehava, that wall had kept Swalekeep safe.

During the twenty-one years since Rohan had taken Roelstra’s princedom and title, the wall had been unnecessary. When bits of it were spirited away to become foundation stones for new homes and shops, no one did anything but shrug. Swalekeep’s inhabitants had eventually knocked down whole sections of wall, and all over the city blocks of gray-veined granite did duty as everything from mounting blocks to entire first floors. And the words of Eltanin of Tiglath, that Rohan would build walls stronger than any stone to keep peace among the princedoms, were in Swalekeep attributed to their late prince, Clutha.

The old man had never had half so abstract a thought in his life. But it made a good story—except in Princess Chiana’s hearing.

“I wonder how Marron likes it here,” the old woman asked suddenly.

“Servitude is hardly his style—but he’ll have to get used to it. Only one of us is going to be the next High Prince, after all. And it won’t be him.”

She chuckled low in her throat. They paced off the neat cobbled streets, past shops with living quarters above, the elegant homes of rich merchants and court functionaries, and finally neared the old castle itself. Of the more than five thousand who lived in Swalekeep, perhaps a hundred were out and about in the muggy morning heat.

“He’s probably become quite civilized these last two winters. Let him rub some polish onto you, Ruval.” She stopped outside a shop where a fine Cunaxan rug was displayed. A
rathiv
—“carpet of flowers”—done in brilliant colors, it was perfect for her purposes. “I want that. Come back later and acquire it for me.”

“With money or persuasion, Mireva?”

As she glanced up to return his grin, by the soft light she suddenly seemed half her nearly sixty-seven winters. The fine lines raying out from her fierce gray-green eyes vanished, as did the slight fleshiness along her jaw as her lifted head tightened the skin.

“None of that,” she chided, though she shared his glee at the possibilities open to them in placid Swalekeep, where
diarmadh’im
were unknown and
faradh’im
barely tolerated by proud Chiana of the long and grudge-filled memory.

They continued down the street to the appointed meeting place just outside the low brick wall surrounding the castle gardens. They lingered for some time, pretending to admire the late roses.

“I can’t help wondering how much he’s changed,” Ruval said as they waited for his half-brother.

“Do you really think he has? He’ll be just the same as ever: stubborn, jealous, and ambitious.”

“But he’s bound to have picked up a few ideas of his own. Like Segev.”

They both paused to recall the youngest of Ianthe’s brood, dead these seven summers by a
faradhi
hand. Segev’s failure to steal the Star Scroll had been a setback; his scheming to take its power for himself had been a shock; his death had been a blessing. But the manner of his death—stabbed by Lady Hollis—earned Mireva’s vow to avenge him. Killing her—and her husband and children—would be almost as satisfying as killing Pol and Rohan.

And
Sioned, who had captured Rohan before Ianthe had even met him, thus fouling one path back to power for Mireva’s people. Sioned had protected Rohan from Roelstra’s treachery during their single combat by constructing a dome of glistening starfire at an impossible distance—stars forbidden to Sunrunners by Lady Merisel of abhorrent memory—after she had ordered Feruche razed and Ianthe slaughtered in her bed.

But only one of Ianthe’s sons had died with his mother: the boy who was Rohan’s get. Ruval, Marron, and Segev had escaped on Sioned’s own Radzyn-bred horses and been brought to Mireva. Ruval wanted the High Princess dead in payment for his mother; Marron, always more direct, simply wanted her dead. Mireva’s reasons were more complex. She had, after all, touched the woman’s powerful mind.

Addressing Ruval’s last remark, she said, “Segev was a fool as only a sixteen-year-old boy can be a fool. Marron is older, and one hopes he’s wise enough to know that you two can’t fight it out until there’s something to fight over. Until we have the Desert and Princemarch, he’ll go where he’s reined.”

“I’ll be riding him with a pronged bit and spurs just the same.”

Mireva paced a little way down the low wall, pausing to inhale the heavy spice of a flowering bush. Ruval followed, and together they gazed up at the castle. An eccentric structure, befitting its long history and the varying tastes of its owners, it exuded towers, extra wings, and additional floors with no regard for any architectural grace. Vines climbed thick and close up gray stone, softening some of the more awkward angles, but taken as a whole it was a rather ugly place. Dragon’s Rest, on the other hand, was reported to be an exquisite blend of beauty, strength, and power. How nice of Pol, Mireva thought with a sudden almost girlish smile, to make a palace fit for the Sorcerer High Prince who stood at her side.

She must be sure to thank Pol before she killed him.

“At last,” Ruval muttered. Mireva turned and saw a familiar young man dressed in the light green of service to Meadowlord’s rulers. Similar in feature and build to his eldest brother, Marron’s coloring was ruddier; even in the muted gray light his hair was a dark red mane. His eyes were brown, like Ianthe’s. Ruval was the taller by two fingers’ width, but Marron was the heavier and more physically imposing. They were unmistakable as brothers, especially when they smiled—sly, mocking, and shrewd.

Marron nodded pleasantly as he approached, as he had done to the one or two others he passed along the wall. When he was abreast of them, he whispered, “The Crown and Castle.” And walked on.

Mireva was irritated, but understood his need for caution. Had there been more people about, they could have met with complete unconcern right outside Chiana’s windows. But the sultry heat kept most of Swalekeep indoors. Thus they had to meet there, too.