Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire (54 page)

Rohan made a face at her rough handling that, even more than her scolding, indicated the wound was not serious. Turning to Pol, he said grimly, “She’s still in there. Unless there’s an escape built into that hole.”

Maarken pushed by his father, who was helping Riyan and Ruala to nearby chairs.

“Maarken—no!” Pol exclaimed, but his cousin was already ducking past into the darkness. There was a blaze of light, a startled cry of pain, and Maarken stumbled back against Pol.

“Merciful Goddess,” he breathed. Then, rallying, he said, “Well, at least we know where she is.”

Andry came to his brother’s side. “You idiot—she might have killed you. Are you all right?”

Maarken nodded. “Shaken a little. There’s quite a bit to this sorcery,” he said with deceptive mildness. “We can’t go in, that’s obvious. But if she could have escaped, I think she would have done it by now.”

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I have no taste for waiting her out.” Andry turned. “Sioned, can you weave some sort of protection for yourself and the others?”

“Yes, I think so, but—”

“Please do so.” He met Pol’s gaze in sardonic challenge. “Well? Shall we see which of us she most wants dead?”

“Interesting decision for her,” he replied. “Ready?”

Andry nodded. He murmured something under his breath then called, “Did you hear me, creature? Your choice! The Lord of Goddess Keep or the next High Prince! Which of us would be easiest for you?”

“Whichever of us you destroy, the other will come in after you!” Pol shouted.

Laughter floated from the darkness. “Which of you has the courage to come to me for your death?”

“No!” Rohan hissed behind them. “Don’t go in! Bring her out!”

“Can you face me?” Mireva taunted.

“Can you face us both?” Pol jeered.

“The two of
you,
working as one?” She laughed uproariously. “You’ll combine forces when dragons fly the seas instead of the sky!”

Pol met and held Andry’s gaze. His cousin whispered words in the old language that for a moment confused Pol.
Fire dream
? Andry gestured impatiently and suddenly Pol understood. Nodding, he readied himself.

Two forms coalesced from Sunrunner’s Fire. One of them became Pol; the other, Andry. The conjurings drifted into the blackness. By their light Pol saw the shape of the room, the woman standing within—alone and still laughing. His fury at being cheated of Ruval showed in a flare of his conjuring. The next instant he cried out and lost control completely as Mireva assaulted his Fire with her own. It was white and cold and it seared every nerve in his body.

“Try again, princeling!”

“Shall I show you how it’s done?” Andry said, voice acid with contempt for them both. Pol’s jangled senses reeled as power flowed smooth and strong from Andry. It was an almost casual display; no effort showed on his face or in his eyes. But Mireva fell back, and the white fire guttered out.

“Pol! Grab her—she’s lost the spell, she’s vulnerable!” Andry cried.

His head was a mass of needles and the orders he gave his limbs were so garbled that he moved like a badly jointed puppet. But he flung himself forward, crashing into Mireva. The Fireglow vanished as they sprawled onto the hard stones.

Pol went for her throat. The loose and wrinkled skin of age suddenly firmed to youthful suppleness and the face above his throttling hands was the exquisite face of Meiglan, framed in the light of her golden hair. His grip faltered. Even though he knew it was illusion, he faltered.

His mind was a storm. Like lightning branches across the Desert sky, firebolts ripped through his brain. He fled them. But Meiglan’s face with Mireva’s gray-green eyes laughed from every corner of thought. Spasms leaped through his muscles as in his mind he ran screaming. But there was no escape.

It was Mireva’s face again, a ruby glow of triumph deep in the eyes. But only for an instant. Horror sliced through him and another burst of lightning as the face changed again, dissolving into formlessness, reshaping as a nightmare. The neck he clutched grew leathery, the face above it became a leering, hideous mass of blotched sores and shedding scales. Horns tipped with blood sprouted from the forehead; curving fangs and a forked tongue protruded from slimy lips. The thick body writhed beneath him; more hands than were possible touched his body in obscene caresses. A shriek echoed endlessly in his skull, a howl half laughter and half feral hunting call.

But the gray-green eyes with their crimson light were still Mireva’s.

Her mistake saved his sanity. He was within an instant of abandoning the struggle in stark terror when some lingering portion of reason screamed that it was illusion: no matter how horrible, only illusion. Fear brought a sob to his throat, but he dug his thumbs as hard as he could into the neck, seeking to crush bones. He concentrated on the sight of his own hands, the moonstone ring, the amethyst of Princemarch, the whitened knuckles, the infuriating weakness that made his fingers jerk and quiver so he could not get a death grip.

Hands very like his own reached down. He tried not to look at them, fearing they were another conjuring. But one finger wore a topaz circled by emeralds. The hands worked quickly near the angle of the massive jaw. And the monster roared in agony.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?” said Rohan.

Mireva writhed on the floor as if from a mortal wound. Pol drew back, stunned by the thing’s sudden disappearance. Rohan pushed him aside and deftly tied the woman’s wrists together with a length of thin wire. Then he grasped Pol’s shoulders.

“Are you all right?” Pol nodded mutely and Rohan sighed with relief. Rocking back on his heels, he wiped sweat from his face and asked more softly, “Well? Does my version of taking action meet with your approval?”

Pol flushed crimson and looked away. Candlelight spilled from the outer room across Mireva’s upper body. She lay quiet now, her head lolling to one side. And then Pol saw it—a thin gleam of silver twisted through her earlobe. No, not silver: steel. He stared at his father with equal parts astonishment and admiration. Rohan smiled tightly.

“It won’t kill her. They’re not as vulnerable to iron as Sunrunners are. But if she makes the slightest attempt at sorcery, her new earring will cause her the agony of all Hells.” He shrugged. “Inelegant, but effective.”

Pol made it to his feet on the second try, with his father’s help. “Why didn’t you just kill her?”

“Because there are still others like her. And our possession of her might be of some worth against Ruval. Besides, I have something else in mind for her. Something infinitely more fitting.”

Pol had never before seen another person’s death in his father’s eyes. He wondered suddenly if this look had been given Ianthe. His mother.

Rohan rubbed absently at his wounded shoulder. “I believe there are suitable accommodations in the cellar—holdovers from our barbarian past,” he added ironically. “If you and Maarken would be so good as to escort her there when she comes around—but I see she’s recovering already.”

“Rohan? Are you going to stay in there all night?”

Chay’s exasperated voice heralded his shadow in the doorway. “What’s going on?”

“Patience,” came the reply. “Go outside and tell everyone they can return to their beds, please. We’re almost through here.”

“What about Ruval?” This from Sioned. “He’s still here somewhere.”

“Is he?” Rohan mused. “I wonder.”

Prodding Mireva’s ribs with his toe, Pol asked, “Well? Where is Ianthe’s eldest spawn?”

Mireva glared at them. “Hidden where you’ll never find him, in the walls of this very castle!”

Rohan smiled. “Thank you. You just informed me that he’s
not
here. If he were, you would have bragged of his escape to entertain yourself with watching me search the castle for the rest of the night. Let’s see, how would he have gotten out of Stronghold? Ah, of course. The guards I sent out looking for you today in the hills. I thought that might be a mistake, but—never mind.”

She spat feebly at him, the truth of his deduction in her eyes. Pol was beyond mere amazement now. He could only stare and wait for his father’s next unsuspected gambit. But if he had been expecting something spectacular, he received only a tired smile.

“I think it’s time we all got some rest,” Rohan said. “Tomorrow may be rather busy.”

They hauled Mireva out. Andry approached her with the curiosity of a scholar looking upon some new and unsavory discovery.

“So,” he said. “This is a sorcerer’s face.”

She lurched to her feet, wrists already raw where she had struggled against the wire binding her. “So,” she sneered, “this is a weakling Sunrunner’s face.”

His brows shot up. “
You
are the one imprisoned here, not I.”

“Not for long.” She flung her head back defiantly, the steel wire shining from her earlobe.

“Spare us your threats,” Riyan snapped. He stood nearby, Ruala within his embrace. “There’ll be no protection for Ruval now. He’ll have to fight Pol fairly.”

“Ah,” Sioned murmured, casting a surprised look at Rohan.

Pol had only just realized it, too. By depriving Mireva of sorcery, the starfire dome of the
rabikor
could not be fashioned. Riyan and Ruala were safe.

“You think you’ve won, High Prince,” Mireva taunted. “Think carefully. You don’t know where he is, what he’s doing, what he knows and how he will use it.” She turned her laughing gaze on Pol. “How much good will your Sunrunner tricks do you against the full power of a
diarmadhi?
”

Andry answered her. “They seem to have worked rather nicely against you.”

“Not for long,” she repeated.

Mydral thumped her cane on the stone. “I’ve had enough of this piece of filth,” she announced. “Get her out of my sight.”

Pol and Maarken started for Mireva, Andry a step behind them.

“Three strong young men to guard one poor, helpless old woman?” she mocked. “You must fear me even more than I thought.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Pol told her. “They’re coming along to make sure I don’t kill you on the spot.”

“Do you think you could?”

He smiled with fatal sweetness. “I know it. But I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the sight of Ruval’s death.”

They took her belowstairs. There were people in the hallways now, returning to their interrupted sleep at Chay’s order, eyes popping with curiosity. Not only did this ordinary-looking old woman merit an extraordinary escort, but three small fingerflames of Sunrunner’s Fire lit their way down the stairs. Pol knew that before anyone’s head rested on a pillow again, word would spread throughout the castle. Everyone would believe that the threat was gone, whatever it had been, and they were safe. His father had that effect on people.

As he descended the cellar stairs behind Mireva, he realized that his own apprehensions had eased. Goddess, how cunning Rohan was. First he had shown Pol the Star Scroll with its spells to work with and its traditions of the
rabikor.
Then had come the revelation about Ianthe to let him know that he was Ruval’s equal in power if not in formal training. Now Mireva was rendered helpless, and by an innocuous piece of steel wire that would interfere with any attempt to use sorcery; there would be no powers but his own and Ruval’s when the challenge came. Tension still coiled in his belly, but Pol knew he would face the man unafraid. His father had given him that.

And his mother. Sionell was right. It must have cost Sioned her soul to tell him. And he had repaid her with cruelty. He would make it up to her with more than the brief words he’d been able to manage earlier. To Princess Ianthe he might owe his existence, but to his mother he owed his life.

And to Sionell, the humblest of apologies.

“Here,” Maarken said, breaking into Pol’s thoughts. “Grandfather Zehava showed me this when I was little. It’s where he kept those rare idiots who offended him twice.” He gestured Mireva into the tiny room with a sarcastic flourish. “Before he personally escorted them out to the Long Sand and left them there.”

“Why not do the same for me?” she asked.

“You heard his grace,” Maarken reminded her. “He wishes you to watch your last hope die.”

She smiled. “If he does, which is by no means certain, it won’t be until he’s settled the debt of Segev’s death with your murdering bitch of a wife.”

Pol saw Maarken turn white in the sudden reactive blaze of conjured Fire. Then Mireva was pinned to the back wall by her throat.

“If you even so much as
think
harm against my wife or my children, I’ll kill you myself,” Maarken hissed, shoving her higher up the stone. “And I warn you, I am neither as powerful nor as civilized as my brother or my cousin. It would take me a very long time, and I would make sure every instant was exquisite agony. So guard even your thoughts, witch. Someone will be listening.”

Pol
had
seen death in Maarken’s eyes before, but not like this. Even Mireva was taken aback. Maarken let her drop to the stone floor, dazed, and spun on his heels. He left it to Andry and Pol to secure the door.

Pol made a swift visual inspection of the cell. It was absolutely bare, without so much as a blanket to lie upon or a piece of straw to set afire for light. There were no windows. The heavy iron door did not even have a slot for passing in food and drink. Evidently his grandfather had meted out a ruthless justice; once it closed, that door would open only to remove the prisoner for transport to a quick death in the trackless wastes of the Long Sand.

It occurred to him that probably in just such a room, Ianthe had imprisoned Sioned.

“There’s nothing here she can use, even if she could get her hands free,” Andry observed. “The way Rohan tied the wires, she’d slice her hands off at the wrist before she could get loose.” Andry regarded her for a long moment, then slammed the door shut with a clang. “So now we wait.”