Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire (37 page)

At last she spoke. “It’s natural for the young to be impatient to test themselves. To take the risk, as you said.”

“They have to announce their arrival as adults,” he said, smiling.

“Yes, but that’s not what I meant. They can afford to risk everything because they don’t really know what life is about. They don’t know that the things worth daring all for aren’t grand or glorious, really.” She tucked one bare foot beneath her, frowning slightly. “You played Roelstra for a fool because you loved the game—and only afterward found out why you’d played it.”

“For the right to wake up in my own bed each morning with you at my side. The right to live in peace, without my sword constantly to hand.” And to teach his son—not the formal things, not law or history or rule, but mending a bridle, or how to whistle. Not great issues, but the little everyday things no one thought anything about until circumstances destroyed them. “The risks we take make us appreciate a peaceful life
without
risks. Pol doesn’t understand that yet. He hasn’t tested himself. What he’ll face soon is the risk of everything—but he doesn’t even know what ‘everything’ is.”

“And we can’t do it for him this time. Rohan, do people go on taking risks if they don’t win what they set out to win—or prove themselves to their own satisfaction?”

“Perhaps the risk must be great enough to teach us our limits as well as our possibilities.” And perhaps, he thought, one had to know war—of whatever kind—before one could embrace the slow and patient sameness of days that make up peace.

“Do you know what really frightens me?” Sioned asked abruptly. “What if what you
do
win isn’t enough?”

“That’s something Pol has to decide.”

Haunted green eyes met his. “Rohan—”

“His decision, Sioned. His risk. Not ours.”

Rebellion flickered, was extinguished with a weary acceptance he had never seen in her before. “You’re wiser than I, my love,” she murmured. “But then, you have less to lose. You won’t give these sorcerers their real identities, so I will. They’re not just Ianthe’s sons. They’re Pol’s half-brothers. I’ve dreaded this since the night I took him from Feruche. It’s time, Rohan, I can feel it. I risked my life and Tobin’s and Ostvel’s to claim him—and I’m about to risk losing him because of what I did.”

“Sioned, I’ve said this time and again and you never seem to hear it. Ianthe had the bearing of him, but he’s your son, not hers.”

She said nothing, merely stared down at her hands.

“If you didn’t believe that, you never would have taken him from Feruche that night.”

“Of course
I
believe it!” she cried. “But will
he
? That’s another decision he’ll have to make—which of us was his true mother!”

“If you doubt what choice he’d make, you don’t know him.”

“Don’t talk as if we won’t ever have to tell him the truth! When he finds out I’ve lied to him his whole life—”

“You weren’t the one who begot him of rape. If we’re portioning out guilt, mine is the dragon’s share.”

“But I was the one who created the lie. Rohan . . . I could stand it if he rejected me. I think I could, anyway. But it would kill me if he rejected himself. His life is based on two facts: he is a prince and a Sunrunner. How will he feel when he finds out that what he thinks are Sunrunner gifts are really signs of sorcerer’s blood?”

Rohan leaned forward and grasped her unwilling hands in his own. “
Listen
to me. You have to trust him, Sioned. He’ll be angry and hurt at first. He won’t understand. But we’re his parents. He loves us.”

She gave him a cynical little smile. “We’ve already judged ourselves, Rohan, and been found guilty. We’d better hope Pol decides differently, and is more forgiving.”

 

 

At that moment Pol was deciding nothing more weighty than whether or not to take the stretch of dunes before him at a gallop. Though his stallion, Pashoc, had better manners than to test the bit, there was an impatient dance to his steps that could only be expected of a son of Rohan’s old war-horse. He wanted a run, and he wanted it
now.

Pol was tempted. He glanced back over his shoulder at the others—Maarken, Hollis, and their children were grouped with Andry and Nialdan; Feylin and Sionell rode with Riyan, Ruala, and Meiglan. Guard duty was shared among six of Miyon’s men and six of Stronghold’s, riding at a discreet distance though the Cunaxans looked as if they wanted to be closer. But no one rode ahead of Pol, and he could let Pashoc have his head at any time.
That
would shake them all up a bit, he thought with a hidden grin. His own people were nervous enough about this little expedition today without his bolting off into the distance unescorted.

Still . . . he shared the horse’s impatience, mixed in with a dose of recklessness and a perverse desire to startle. Pashoc sensed his choice in the fractional shift of weight in the saddle and hands on the reins, and the instant Pol touched his heels to sleek flanks, the stallion was off like an arrow.

“Pol!” yelled Maarken, the shout fading as wind rushed through his hair and hooves pounded on packed sand. The Desert blurred to pale golden light around him, edged by fierce blue sky. Pashoc reached for more distance with every stride, slowing only a little going up each dune, gaining speed on the descents. Pol laughed and imagined himself with dragon wings, skimming over the bright world far below.

At last he signaled a slower pace. As the stallion pulled back from full gallop to canter to a walk that expressed his impatience for yet more speed, Pol surveyed the landscape, breathless not from the ride but from amazement.

The Desert, usually golden-white accented by dusty green scrub along the Vere Hills, was alive with color. A fabric of flowers spread across the dunes like silk draped over the sweet curves of a woman’s body. The patchwork of brilliant orange and vivid scarlet and deepest turquoise changed to bronze and dark crimson and violet in the hollows, accented by traceries of water-rich green, all of it stitched to a background of white-gold sand. Around Stronghold the Desert had bloomed this spring, but here water and long-dormant seeds had burst into wealth worthy of Meadowlord or Syr.

Pol nearly leaped off his horse to plunge his hands into that incredible treasure of color. But the sand-muted thud of hooves behind him recalled him to princely dignity just in time. He turned in the saddle, unsurprised to find it was Maarken and Andry who had caught up to him first. The horses they rode were Radzyn breed, as long-legged and swift as Pashoc.

“Can you
believe
this?” he called out, gesturing to the hills. “It’s as if the Desert itself has a pattern everyone can see, not just a Sunrunner.”

The brothers reined in nearby. Andry shook the hair from his eyes and gave Pol a wide smile. “Nialdan and Oclel teased me for being so stunned by the colors,” he confided. “Nobody not Desert-born can understand our reactions to this. And being
faradhi
makes us all the more sensitive to it.”

Maarken nodded. “You should have seen the twins at New Year, when the south began to bloom. They came back from a ride covered in flower-dust and reeking of perfume—the little monsters actually
rolled
in a field of rock-roses!”

“Stark naked,” Pol guessed, and his cousin laughed. “Sounds wonderful, but I think we’d shock the ladies if we tried it.”

“Are you joking? Hollis and Sionell would join us!” Andry grinned. “Nialdan’s the one who’d have a fit—he has such exalted ideas of highborn behavior.”

Maarken’s brows lifted. “Then you’ve never told him about the time we—”

“I have a position to uphold,” Andry informed him haughtily, but his eyes were dancing the lie to his tone. “Anyway, he’d never believe I was ever a little boy who followed my criminally inclined eldest brother into mischief.”

“Criminally inclined?” Maarken took a playful swing at his shoulder. “And what d’you mean, followed me?
You
were the one who thought up the exploding goat bladder filled with pepper.”

“Inspired,” Pol contributed. “I tried it at Graypearl once, but a fish bladder didn’t produce the same effect. Besides, I couldn’t wash the smell off my hands and got caught.”

“We had the same problem,” Andry reminisced. “And tried to solve it with half a jar of Mother’s hand cream.”

“Which gave us away as surely as goat-stink would have,” Maarken added. “We three little wretches smelled suspiciously sweet, and our fingers were so slippery that none of us could hold a spoon that night at dinner!”

They shared more memories of childhood escapades while waiting for the others to catch up. Pol was almost sorry when they did. His relationship with Maarken had always been comfortable and affectionate, but it was a very long time since he’d shared such easy humor and companionship with Andry.

He wondered how much effort the Lord of Goddess Keep had to put into pretending to like the Ruler of Princemarch—as much as the Ruler of Princemarch was giving to pretending he liked the Lord of Goddess Keep?

Pol was a little ashamed of himself. They didn’t have to be their titles
all
the time. They were members of the same family, with the same blood and the same heritage and the same love of this Desert that belonged to them all.

When the others approached, Maarken fixed a stern gaze on the younger men. “If either of you tell Chayla or Rohannon any of this—”

“Us?” Andry sent an innocent glance toward Pol, who grinned.

“Let ’em think up their own trouble to get into. From what I hear, they’re already quite creative.”

“And will only get worse.” Maarken sighed. “They’re our parents’ revenge, you know—grandchildren. I wouldn’t be surprised if Father put them up to the unstitched pillows trick last winter. Every time anybody sat down. . . .” He grimaced.

“I never tried that one,” Andry said thoughtfully.

“I’ll have my brats teach yours someday,” Maarken offered generously.

“
Too
kind!”

“What’s a brother for?”

Pol laughed and reined Pashoc around to greet the late arrivals. As he had expected, Meiglan was last, riding the most placid mare in the Stronghold stables. Sionell and Feylin had stayed with her, and one of Miyon’s guards, for it was obvious that she was far from being an expert horsewoman. He smiled encouragement at her and when the party was fully assembled once again, led the way along the trail to Rivenrock.

Feylin cantered up to ride beside him. “I trust you’re through practicing for the races,” she said.

“How did you know I was going to ride this year?”

She looked startled. “Are you really?”

“Of course.” He smiled. “It’s something of a tradition in the family, after all, to win our Chosen lady’s wedding jewels in a race.”

He admired her self-control. A momentary tensing of her shoulders and a flicker of a frown were the only indications of her reaction.

“It’s about time you did something about that,” she replied easily. “Am I to assume you have someone in mind?” She didn’t wait for an answer, as if she had no desire to hear one. “I’ve always thought the
Rialla
an absurd way to find a spouse. All those young people thrown together in an artificial situation, expected to discover each other’s characters and make an intelligent Choice based on eight or ten days’ acquaintance.”

“The alternative is a grand tour of the princedoms, in equally artificial visits that put even more pressure on the people involved. At least at the
Rialla
there’s comfort in knowing there’s a score of you all in the same fix.”

“Mmm. Still, it’s a terrible risk to take with one’s future.”

“We can’t all be as lucky as you and Walvis, to find each other during a war—as honest a situation as one could encounter, don’t you think?”

“Now that you mention it, yes,” she replied forthrightly. “You see what a person really is. The circumstances aren’t any more normal than that cattle show at the
Rialla,
but the people are a lot more honest.”

“Perhaps I ought to start a war. Just a
little
one, to improve my chances of finding a suitable wife.”

She regarded him sourly. “I pity the girls who succumb to that handsome face and silken tongue of yours.”

Pol laughed. “I can’t claim credit for either—I get them from my father.”

“He never saw fit to use them the way you do. How many dozens is it now?”

He bowed in his saddle. “I’ll send you a list so you can express your sympathies to them.”

Feylin gave up and laughed. “You’re a mannerless, arrogant, impudent pest!”

“So I’ve been told.” Pol winked at her. “But let’s talk about something more interesting—like dragons. We’ll make a cave count today, I suppose?”

“For all the good it will do.” She shook her head. “They’ll never return here, Pol. Sioned tried to get it across to her little dragon that it’s safe, but the creature didn’t seem to understand.”

“Mother told me Elisel howled even at a mental picture of Rivenrock.”

“Yet she was convinced to share Dragon’s Rest. It frustrates Sioned that she can’t make it clear that the caves are safe to use again.”

“I don’t understand that,” he said. “Elisel wasn’t even hatched when the Plague struck. How could she know?”

“How can we understand how their thoughts work? I’ve held a dragon’s brain in my two hands, and aside from the obvious similarities in shape and differences in size, I didn’t learn a damned thing. You and Sioned have communicated with them—but I’ve also seen Chay and Maarken hold long conversations with their horses that I could swear the beasts understand.”

His brows arched. “Touching dragon colors is slightly more sophisticated a process than having a chat with a horse!”

“Yet we comprehend both animals to about the same degree.”

Pol ruminated for a time, staring at the trail from between his horse’s ears. “Ostvel thinks the old legend about Castle Crag being carved out by dragons is true. Other caverns in the Faolain gorge there are perfect. But no dragons have ever used them. Why did they abandon
those
caves?”