Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire (31 page)

“There was none other I could make! Why should I have stayed here to run some insignificant little holding when I could be what I am now? Ambition runs in the family—why do you condemn mine? Andrade wanted me to rule Goddess Keep and all
faradh’im.
If the power that gives me doesn’t suit you, then too damned bad! And while we’re on the subject of ambition, look to your son!”

Rohan spoke quietly. “It would be futile to point out that, like you, Pol is in exactly the position Andrade intended. But I will tell you one thing. You turned your face from everyone but Sorin. Now that he’s gone, there’s nothing to hold you to us but our love for you. I see now that you have none left for us.”

Blue eyes went wide with sudden unexpected pain. Rohan stood, speaking gently.

“Andry, you haven’t lost us. But we’re afraid of losing you.”

“Afraid of losing me, or afraid
of
me?” came the bitter reply. And in the next instant he was gone.

Arlis, pushed summarily aside in the hall, hovered in the doorway for a moment. He was still young enough to be offended by Andry’s brusque treatment but old enough—and prince enough—to show it only with a brow arched at Rohan.

“I don’t think he even saw you,” Rohan said tiredly. “Never mind. Go to bed now, Arlis. I’ll do for myself, thank you.”

“As you wish, my lord.”

The weariness was profound as he went through to the bedchamber. His wife sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair.

“Sioned, I am a fool.”

“Granted,” she replied serenely. “What have you done this time?”

“I said all the wrong things it was possible to say.” He flung himself into a chair. “I questioned his judgment, threatened his power, insulted him, hurt him, and came damned close to taking him over my knee.”

“That about covers the mistakes you could have made with him,” she agreed.

“Am I getting old and stupid? I’m supposed to be clever. I’m supposed to know how to handle people.”

She faced him, compassion soft in her eyes. “People, my love. Not family. The problem is that you care too much about him.”

Rohan nodded. “Feylin said much the same thing this evening.”

“What are we going to do now?”

“I haven’t the slightest notion.”

“I think you do,” she murmured.

He shifted uncomfortably, then admitted, “Pol asked me why it is that I never act until I’m forced to. It seems I’m forced to now. Who was that cousin of Cabar’s who approached Pol? Barig? He should still be at Swalekeep. I want him summoned here. Do it yourself, Sioned, as a direct order from the High Prince.”

“Every bed at Stronghold will be full, then. I just spoke with Riyan on moonlight and gave Tallain permission to bring Miyon here.”

“Damn!” But after a moment’s thought he added, “No, that will be all right. I’d rather have him watch my little demonstration of power with his own eyes.”

“Which will properly warn him—and impress on him that the laws of the High Prince are superior to those of any other princedom and even of Goddess Keep.”

Rohan gaped at her. “How can you know what I’m going to do when I’ve barely started to work it out myself?”

She smiled. “I know you,
azhrei.
Now come to bed.”

P
rincess Chiana dismissed her maids with a gesture, barely waiting for the doors to click shut behind them before plunging into the depths of her huge standing wardrobe. A few moments later she emerged gleefully with garments clutched in her hands. Shucking out of her bedrobe and nightdress, she made quick work of buttons and laces and stood before three angled mirrors to judge the effect.

Chiana smiled. She had kept her figure after her pregnancies and at almost thirty had a waist like a young girl’s, shown off to excellent advantage by a snug tunic and tight belt. Her hips curved sleekly in leather breeches that clung like a second skin. The clothes were basically for riding, but there was a marked difference: the light green tunic was cut like a soldier’s and across the breast leaped the black deer of Meadowlord, antlers lifted like swords.

At the bottom of a clothespress in the corner was the final piece of the ensemble. Chiana struggled into it, acting as her own squire as she fastened silver buckles. At last the stiffened leather was secure. She struck a martial pose and grinned at her reflection. With boots rising to mid-thigh and carnelian-studded body armor covering her chest and spine, she was the perfect picture of the warrior-princess.

Thought of her rank sent her to another wardrobe, where she removed a locked coffer. The helm inside was also of stiffened leather braced with gold. Around the brow circled a wide band of gold, which above the nosepiece swirled up into another running stag, its eyes and antlers set with more carnelians. It was difficult to get all her heavy auburn hair hidden beneath the helm, but she managed. When she strutted before the three mirrors again, she laughed out loud.

All she needed was to mount the Kadari mare purchased at the last
Rialla,
a magnificent horse black from nose to tail with white feathering at hooves and ears, and her presentation would be complete. But it was to be no idle masquerade for amusement. Tomorrow she would ride out wearing her warrior’s armor in earnest, and by the end of spring Castle Crag and all of Princemarch would be hers.

Troops waited in secret for her arrival. Strategically scattered along the border, they had been assembling slowly, stealthily, since the New Year Holiday. They waited for her to lead them up to Rezeld Manor, where Lord Morlen had also assembled all those who owed him service. He had been a real find—the work of the red-haired steward Mirris, who was in Cunaxa arranging another army. Morlen and his family had succeeded for years in pretending poverty to hide their considerable resources. But he had been unable to fool High Prince Rohan, who had claimed his share of Rezeld’s bounty, mainly in stone used to build Dragon’s Rest. Morlen had conceived a loathing for his princes that made him easy to convince when Minis had put forth certain proposals. And now the man waited with more than three hundred soldiers at Rezeld for Chiana to lead them against Prince Pol’s gorgeous new palace.

The number of troops Morlen was able to assemble had been a shock to him as well as to Chiana, until Mirris had explained that there were many in the Veresch who wished a prince of Roelstra’s blood back at Castle Crag. Chiana laughed again as she remembered Mirris’ explanation.

“Their loyalty is to those who ruled them for five generations. Of course they will flock to your grace’s banner—the noblest of the late High Prince’s daughters. And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if along the way from Dragon’s Rest to Castle Crag, hundreds more joined your grace’s armies.”

The notion was intoxicating. Mirris himself had been a find of no small importance. Chiana turned a straight chair around before her favorite mirror, straddling the chair as if it was her black horse. Sunlight glinted off the gold and carnelians scattered around her armor and helm. As she nodded graciously to her imagined armies, the stag at her brow seemed eager to vault mountains.

“Mama! Mama!”

Furious, she jumped out of the chair as the chamber door swung open. Who had given Rinhoel permission to come in here? But when had he ever waited for permission to do anything? Her anger evaporated and she reveled in the child’s beauty. Not even Ianthe’s sons could have been so like their grandsire. Rinhoel was tall for being not quite seven winters old, lanky but strong. His hair was night-black, his eyes pure green without a hint of hazel; his kinship to Roelstra was as obvious in his looks as it was every time he opened his mouth. She caught him in her arms and he reached for the stag on her helm.

“No, greedy one, don’t ruin Mama’s armor!” She set him down hastily and went to kick the door shut. “Have you escaped your squires and tutors again?”

“They wanted me to read boring things,” he informed her. “I don’t need to read at all, Mama. I hate it and I’m a prince and people will read to me when I order them!”

“True,” she admitted, taking off the helm to let her hair cascade down her back. “But often there are messages you won’t want anyone to know about. That’s why you must learn to read well and quickly, my own. You wouldn’t want to depend on someone else to read to you what must be kept secret.” She had a sudden idea, and, being a mother intensely concerned with her son’s education, she acted on it at once. Turning the straight chair around again, she said, “Rinhoel, shall I tell you a secret?”

“Yes! Tell me now!”

He claimed the hand she held out to him and suffered himself to be lifted onto her lap. She watched their reflections in the mirror. “Mama is going away tomorrow for a little while.”

“Where?” he demanded. “To battle? Is that why you’re dressed like a soldier? I want to come!”

“Not yet, darling. But very soon. While I’m gone, I’ll send you letters every day and tell you everything that’s happening. You wouldn’t want anyone else to read them, would you?”

“They’ll be secret?”

“Of course. From everyone but us. Between a princess and her princely son there are no secrets.” It was amazing how much pleasure the titles still brought her.

“But you weren’t going to tell me you were going.”

“I would have this evening if you hadn’t burst in on me all unmannerly.” She squeezed him. “Look in the mirror, Rinhoel. Can you see yourself wearing this same kind of armor, riding a beautiful big horse into Castle Crag?”

“I don’t want Castle Crag, I want Dragon’s Rest.”

Chiana told herself that naturally a little boy would desire a place he had seen rather than one he had not. Her official excuse for bringing him with her to the last
Rialla
had been that she could not bear to be parted from him. True enough. But it was another secret between them, solemnly sworn even though he had been only four years old, that she had shown him the palace halls and gardens whispering of the day Dragon’s Rest would be his along with the rest of Princemarch.

“You will certainly own it soon. But remember that Castle Crag belonged to our ancestors for many generations, and we’ll rule from there—the way your grandsire did and his grandsire before him.”

“I’m not supposed to tell Father about this, am I?” he asked shrewdly.

“It’ll be our secret, Rinhoel. Think how much fun it will be to receive my letters and know things that no one else does! So you must practice your reading all the time, my darling. Do you understand?”

“I’m not a baby.”

“No, you’re not. You’re my prince, aren’t you? And together we’ll ride into Castle Crag—after we take Dragon’s Rest, of course.”

Rinhoel considered, then nodded acquiescence. He hopped off her lap and recovered the discarded helm. Chiana watched in delight as he put it on and marched back to her, wielding an imaginary sword.

“And
that
to Prince Pol and all Sunrunners!” he cried, thrusting toward her heart.

She applauded and together they laughed.

 

 

Swalekeep—like every other princely seat, all the major and a good many of the minor holdings—had a resident
faradhi.
But unlike most court Sunrunners, Vamanis usually had very little to do. There were other places where his kind were tolerated, and some where they were openly suspected. But no Sunrunner was so thoroughly ignored as Vamanis. He saw their graces of Meadowlord only when a message had come in from elsewhere, for tradition dictated that the Sunrunner speak directly to those he served. Prince Halian and Princess Chiana never used him for communication with other princes or with their own
athr’im
—which to Vamanis’ way of thinking was surpassingly stupid. Why send couriers when one had a Sunrunner at hand? But they obviously did not trust him. Part of
faradhi
ethic was to respect the privacy of such communication no matter what it might be—although he had to admit that under young Lord Andry, that tradition was becoming as flexible as many others. There were things Vamanis swore Lord Andry could have known only because a court Sunrunner had broken the oath of secrecy. Vamanis’ own training had been under Lady Andrade, and she had been a stickler for tradition. But convincing those at Swalekeep of his honor had proved impossible. Especially forbidden him was the usual Sunrunner duty of helping instruct the children of the house. So he rarely had anything to do.

Fortunately, he had other interests and resources. His mother had been a silversmith, his father a cook in their home city of Einar, and Vamanis exercised both talents when he wasn’t exploring the countryside, idly courting several pretty women, reading, or conversing on sunlight with friends who lived anywhere from Snowcoves to Dorval. It was a pleasant life all in all, devoted to private pursuits. But after three years it was beginning to bore him. He had just completed his twenty-eighth winter, and his rings made him one of the elite of his world. There were many other things he could do with his life and he often felt as if his gifts were starting to rust. This summer he intended to petition Lord Andry for another posting, and let someone else enjoy this cushiony existence for a few years.

Vamanis was in the kitchens conferring with the pastry cook about a delicacy for that evening’s meal when an abrupt message on the sunlight streaming through an open window caught his mind. In her characteristically brief, dignified, but friendly fashion, the High Princess requested that he inform Lord Barig of Gilad that the High Prince earnestly desired his presence at Stronghold. Vamanis paused an instant to savor the elegant pattern of Sioned’s colors; he had seldom been touched by them, and her mastery and her glow were a rare treat. After promising to convey the request, he tendered his respects and sighed faintly with the loss of her. Now, there was a woman and then some, he told himself as he went to find Lord Barig.