Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire (36 page)

“I saw what I saw,” Donato repeated stubbornly.

“Perhaps he
did
believe you, and chose not to indicate it,” Ostvel mused.

Donato’s jaw dropped slightly. “Wherever else his ambitions might lead him, he could hardly want the destruction of Dragon’s Rest!”

Ostvel only grunted.

The Sunrunner thumbed one of his rings nervously. “Are you going to tell me about these? Why they hurt?”

“Not now. But thank the Goddess for it, my old friend,” he said more gently, trying to ease Donato’s eventual shock when he learned he, too, had
diarmadhi
blood.

After helping Donato onto his pony, he mounted and they rode down the mountain, back into the fog that still blanketed Castle Crag. He saw the
faradhi
to his chambers for a well-earned rest, then climbed up to the oratory and stared out at the gray mist. Eventually he almost smiled. Sorcery might have disguised whatever was happening or had happened at Rezeld, but Ostvel would need no magic to hide what he was about to do.

Only a short while later he stood beside Dannar’s cradle, watching the boy sleep. He stroked one finger lightly over bright red hair, remembering when Riyan had been this small, this defenseless. His paternal reverie was broken by a smile as Dannar’s sleeping face screwed up in a terrible grimace.

“Ah, now, none of that, my lad,” he whispered. “You must be very good while I’m gone, and let people sleep nights.”

The mere sound of his voice settled the child, and a great yawn was followed by a drowsy mumble. Ostvel tugged unnecessarily at the blanket—a gift from Rohan and Sioned, woven in Desert blue and Princemarch’s violet to signify his relationship to both, with a touch of Kierstian scarlet around the edges to honor Alasen. So much royal heritage wrapped around so small a child. . . . He smiled again. Camigwen had always accused him of being a perfect shatter-shell around babies.

A soft voice behind him made him turn. “Everything’s ready.”

“Thank you.” He did not need to ask if Alasen had accomplished it all in secret. “If anyone asks—”

“Donato is indisposed and you’re out checking the herds again after the winter rains,” she finished for him.

They left the nursery and went to their own rooms. Donato and two male guards waited there, dressed warmly and carrying small satchels. Ostvel accepted his own pack from Alasen, then turned to his escort.

“I trust you or you wouldn’t be here,” he said simply. The guards gave him brief, proud nods. He led them through the anteroom to the bedchamber. “My lady?” he asked. “Will you do the honors?”

Alasen walked unerringly to the fireplace, touched a carving in the form of a star, and stepped aside as a narrow section of stone slid soundlessly back, revealing a dark passageway. “This leads to Prince Pol’s rooms,” she informed the dumbstruck guards. “And thence down about a million stairs to the river. I hope you’re in good shape,” she added wryly. “Remember to douse the candles before you emerge from the passage, and don’t use any light in the boat. And—” She faltered slightly. “And take good care of my lord.”

“With our lives, my lady,” one of them said, and followed Donato through the opening, each carrying a lighted candle. The second man hung back, tactfully studying a tapestry as Alasen turned to Ostvel.

“I’d come with you, but you know how I feel about crossing water,” she told him.

He framed her face in his hands. “I wish you’d reconsider about having Sioned or Riyan contact you with news Donato will send them.”

She shook her head. “They’ll have enough to worry about without adding me to the list. I’ll be fine.”

He didn’t press the point. Leaning down to brush his lips against hers, he was startled when she flung her arms around his neck and clung to him.

“Be careful.” Then she let him go as abruptly as she had embraced him. “Hurry.”

A few moments later, holding a candle high as he negotiated the narrow passage, he heard the whisper of stone sliding shut behind him. He was gambling that four men could get to Dragon’s Rest in the same time an army could march there from Rezeld. The swift-flowing Faolain would take them to a landing where they would commandeer horses. At his age he was not looking forward to a forced ride, but with a little luck they’d make it in time.

As for the reason he was doing this crazy thing—he pushed hard on the star carved into the wood paneling of Pol’s bedchamber and led the way through the opening. He supposed it was the habit of half a lifetime to look after his princes’ interests. There was no one at Dragon’s Rest of sufficient authority to counter Lord Morlen, so it was his duty as regent in Pol’s absence to forbid this unlawful undertaking.
Flimsy,
he thought;
nicely attentive to Rohan’s law, but no man who raises an army against his prince is going to be bothered by a little thing like legality. Besides, you’ve never commanded a defensive action in your life, unless you count Stronghold in 704 when the Merida attacked, and even then it was Maeta and Myrdal who ran things.

He called a stop halfway down the interminable stairs so the four of them could rest their legs before knees turned to mush. During the brief respite, he continued examining his motives. There was no Sunrunner at Dragon’s Rest to receive Pol’s orders at a distance. It was essential that Donato be there. But this excuse held up only little better than the other. If Andry was prompt about relaying Donato’s message, even if he didn’t believe it, then someone would arrive at the palace about the same time as Ostvel.

If
Andry told Rohan and Sioned. Not
when.

His real reason was that of the few people he trusted absolutely, Andry was not among them. Rationally, he knew there could be no motive for Andry to conceal what was going on, but trust was not a thing rationally arrived at. Ostvel wanted to
be
at Dragon’s Rest, to warn, to lead if necessary, to defend his princes as he had done for nearly thirty years.

S
tifling a yawn, Rohan slid his arms into the shirt his squire held out for him. Sioned was seated at her dressing table mirror, sunlight bathing her in gold as she braided her hair. A morning like any other, except for her silence. He nodded permission for Arlis to retire, guessing that his wife desired privacy. He was right; she waited only until the door closed before speaking.

“I suppose that girl is going along.”

“I suppose so.”

Last night Pol had proposed an expedition to Rivenrock Canyon to view the dragon caves. Rialt had gone ahead early with a dozen servants and the open-sided pavilion where the party would be served a simple meal before a leisurely ride back in time for dinner. The ride was a pleasant day’s diversion and, considering the discussions awaiting him, Rohan almost wished he had been asked to be diverted.

“It’d be nice to go with them,” he went on. “But we do pretty much as we please the rest of the time, and pay for it on days like this.”

“Who’s first today, Miyon or Lord Barig?”

“Which one would you prefer to avoid?”

“Have I a choice?” She gave him a sour smile.

“Both breathlessly await our summons.” He fastened the cuffs of his shirt and bent over to peer at his hair in her mirror. “You know, I never see the gray except when Pol’s here.”

“Speaking of whom. . . .” She gave him frown for frown in the mirror. “You’ve been putting me off for four days and—”

“Sioned, I can’t fix my mind either on Miyon’s schemes or Barig’s arguments if I’m distracted by what’s going on with Pol.”

“You wouldn’t have sent Arlis out if you weren’t ready to discuss it. And discuss it we will.” She spun around on the cushioned stool. “Miyon’s never been able to best us any other way, so now he’s resorted to low cunning. Dangling this girl in front of Pol—”

“Don’t you think Pol knows that? I
told
you, Sionell made it clear to me that he’s perfectly aware of why Meiglan is here.”

“Then why is he falling headlong into the trap? And in case you hadn’t noticed, he’s not a boy. He’s a man. You’d better hope he thinks with what’s between his ears instead of what’s between his legs!”

Rohan told himself to be patient. “So why don’t you talk to him about it?”

“I did,” she replied shortly and turned to the mirror again, picking through a jewel case with quick, angry fingers. “Yesterday.”

“What did he say?”

Her voice dripped sarcasm. “That it’s only good manners to be polite to someone so obviously shy and unused to company. That he wants to learn more about her music. That he admires her looks. That I can’t seriously be suggesting, Mother, that he should snub her because of who her father is.” Sioned snapped the case shut. “That I ought to mind
my
business, not his!”

“Pol never said that.”

“He implied it!”

Rohan put his hands on her shoulders, rubbing the tense muscles. “My love, you’ve been jumpy ever since we learned who this Ruval really is. I think you’re being a little too sensitive.”

“Don’t patronize me,” she warned. “Ruval is something else you won’t talk to me about, and don’t think I don’t know why.” She glared at him in the mirror. “Jumpy, am I? Sensitive? Pol’s behaving as if he’s about to Choose an enemy’s bastard daughter, Ianthe’s sons have suddenly appeared out of nowhere to challenge his right to Princemarch—with sorcery involved—and I can’t even express what I feel in decent privacy to my own husband?”

“Sioned!” He had rarely seen her so upset. “There are threats here, I’ll admit, but Pol’s not a child. And he’s not fool enough to take Meiglan as his wife!”

“Do you believe that?” she demanded. “Do you? If you answer yes, you’re a liar.”

“You and I made a promise to tell each other the truth. Or at least never to lie, which doesn’t quite amount to the same thing, as you’ve demonstrated on several occasions. So—yes, the prospect of a Cunaxan as the mother of my grandchildren revolts me. But until Ruval comes out from whatever rock he’s hiding under and Pol comes to his own conclusions about Meiglan, there’s not a hell of a lot I can do, is there?”

Sioned relented. Placing her hands on his where they rested on her shoulders, she said, “I’ve been frightened before, Goddess knows. Pol’s been in danger before, his rights in doubt. But—”

“But you and I were always acting on his behalf. Protecting him, making the decisions for him. This time he’s on his own. We have to trust him, Sioned—and trust in the training we gave him.”

“Yes,” she replied slowly. “He’s not a child. But there’s an innocence about him, Rohan. I can’t quite explain it. A quality of being . . . untouched somehow, even though he’s a grown man and a ruling prince—and no stranger to women.”

“Unlike his extremely backward father,” Rohan murmured, smiling a little.

“Oh? I heard about when you were eighteen and had been in your first battle and were quite full of yourself.”

“Myrdal told on me, I suppose. Did she also mention I was so full of victory wine that I remember almost nothing of that whole night?”

“Almost?” She arched a brow.

“Well. . . . Enough to know what I wanted when I finally met you.”

“Exactly. And Pol knows enough to know what
he
wants from this girl.”

“She has a name, you know.”

“Don’t divert me from the issue,” Sioned told him severely.

“Very well.” He pulled a chair into the sun and sat down; since they were obviously in for a long discussion, he decided he might as well be comfortable. “Let’s talk about trusting Pol’s wits and judgment. Do you or don’t you?”

“In everything else, yes! He’s proved himself as a prince and as a man—”

“Has he? I wonder.”

“And what is
that
supposed to mean?”

Rohan propped his elbows on the arms of the chair, lacing his fingers together. The great Desert topaz surrounded by emeralds shone on his hand. “I worried sometimes that my son would come to resent me the way I resented my own father. Oh, I loved Zehava and admired him deeply, for all that we were nothing alike. But by the time I was twenty or so I was frantic to rule a princedom I thought I understood better than he did.” He smiled wryly. “A fine piece of adolescent conceit, you’ll agree.”

“Pol doesn’t feel that way at all, Rohan.”

“No. We’re lucky that way. He has his own princedom to govern, so he doesn’t have to covet mine in order to prove his talents. He’s not even sure he
wants
to be High Prince—he’s perfectly willing to let me wrestle with that for the next fifty years or so. So there’s no jealousy or rivalry between us.”

“Of course not. But I don’t understand—”

“Let me finish. When I put Princemarch in his name instead of mine it wasn’t only because he has blood-right to it, while my claim was only spoils of war. I wanted him to grow up thinking of Princemarch as
his,
to know that he would rule it long before he gets the Desert as well. By now he has every confidence in himself as a prince and a man.

“But, you see, he never really had to
work
for it. He’s never been given things outright—he had to earn his way from squire to knighthood, and, Goddess know, Urival and Morwenna were strict enough with
faradhi
training. You and Ostvel and I put him through an equally tough school when it came to governing. But he’s never fought for and won anything, either. The way I had to fight Roelstra that summer to win my own respect as a prince—and to win you.”

Sioned tapped her nails on the dressing table. “And Pol hasn’t done that yet. Rohan—do you think he needs to?”

“I think everyone needs to take the risk in some form or another. How else to discover one’s possibilities?”

She was silent for a time, mulling over his words. More than anything else about her, he loved this: that she listened to him with all her gifts. She never meekly agreed with him simply because he was her husband and the High Prince. If she thought he was wrong she said so; if she accepted his reasoning she explained why, almost always confirming his own thoughts with things he hadn’t considered. Precious as she was to him as his wife, she was essential as his princess.