Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll (10 page)

“At a little less than his age,” Rohan reminded her, “I was acting as go-between for a certain princess and her intended lord. Midnight meetings, secret afternoons—is Pol accomplished at that, too?”

Tobin had the grace to blush, even at her age. “I don’t know, but if he is I’ll wager he’s not half as clumsy about it as you were! I lost ten years off my life that time Father caught me with Chay!”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Rohan protested. “And you were only found the once, of all the hundreds of times—”

“Hundreds! Listen to him!” She stepped back on the coolness of the foyer and inspected them both. “Rohan, you’ve been eating. I don’t believe it.”

Sioned chuckled. “One of the privileges of encroaching middle age is getting fat.”

“I am not,” Rohan said. He pinched Tobin’s waist that was still as firm as a young girl’s. “
You
don’t seem to have taken advantage of it.”

“If she did,” Chay said from the open doorway, “I’d throw her in my dungeon and starve her. Sioned, you’re more beautiful than ever—as always.” He kissed her, then paused a moment and kissed her again for good measure. “What’s all this about middle age? And as for you—” He clasped Rohan’s shoulders in both strong hands and grinned. “You could still hide behind your swordblade. Why am I the only one getting older?”

Sioned’s brows arched. “The mere sight of you sends every woman at Stronghold into a flutter, and you ask that?”

“I adore this woman,” he sighed happily. “But it’s not me, it’s Maarken. Do you know he’s asked for Whitecliff to be redone this summer?”

“Oho!” Sioned laughed. “Do I detect grandchildren soon?” Catching sight of Maarken in the doorway, crimson to his earlobes, she beckoned him over for an embrace. “Not another word about it, I promise.”

“
Thank
you,” he said feelingly. “Pol wants us to go upstairs without him. He’ll be along in a little while. Myrdal’s got hold of him.”

Tobin nodded and started up the main staircase. “And she won’t be giving him up for the time it takes us to discuss the danger he’s in.”

The warmth of the family reunion turned to chill silence. Several steps above them now, Tobin sighed, turned, and shrugged an apology.

“It has to be talked about. Come on, all of you.”

Rohan, in an attempt to recapture a little of the former mood as they followed her, whispered loudly to Chay, “Why is it she can make me feel like a guest in my own castle?”

“Better a guest than a servant,” Chay responded philosophically. “You should see what she does to lords and princes foolish enough to invite us for a hunting party or a harvest festival.”

“I’ve seen, thanks—every three years at the
Rialla.
She and I had the same parents and the same upbringing, Chay—why can she do it when I can’t?”

Tobin had reached the landing by now and glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, poor, awkward, tongue-tied High Prince,” she scoffed. “You do it, too—only you realize it as little as Pol does.”

When Rohan had assumed the title of High Prince, the number of people coming and going at Stronghold multiplied fourfold. Ambassadors from other princedoms arrived with increasing frequency and stayed longer, although Rohan refused to keep the kind of permanent court Roelstra had established at Castle Crag. Sioned’s skills as a Sunrunner made resident representatives unnecessary; she could communicate more swiftly and effectively to
faradh’im
at other courts than messages could go back and forth via couriers. Moreover, the interplay between Sunrunners was brief and to the point, unlike the endless civilities and obfuscations by which officials justified their existence. The lack of a formal court was a relief to both Rohan and Sioned. During Pol’s childhood especially they had wanted to preserve some semblance of family life despite their exalted position.

Nevertheless, emissaries still came and went, and it had been necessary to modify Stronghold to accommodate the increased traffic. Sometimes every chamber, anteroom, and even the hallways were jammed full of people who had had the misfortune to arrive all at the same time. If there were complaints, Sioned never heard them. She never apologized, either, for the inconvenience. She looked on anyone but her family and close friends as interlopers in her home: tolerated, fed, and conversed with, but encouraged to leave as soon as they had finished their business. Rohan’s mother, Princess Milar, had changed Stronghold from warrior’s fortress into family dwelling; Sioned had no intention of its becoming a court that functioned only for the comfort and ease of outsiders.

Rohan had insisted on one thing, however. There was a large, formal audience chamber directly off the main foyer, but it was much too grand for confidential talks in a relaxed atmosphere. He had therefore claimed a smaller and less formal room within the precincts of their own suite. In the downstairs chamber the floor was bare, the few chairs were uncushioned, and one wall was covered with a huge tapestry of Stronghold itself in an unsubtle reminder of the keep’s strength and its rulers’ powers. But upstairs a gorgeous Cunaxan rug covered the stone floor in restful colors of green, blue, and white; the seating was casual and plentiful; smaller tapestries depicted the Vere Hills in spring bloom. The windows overlooked the courtyard where castlefolk went about their business and provided a pleasant background noise. In this beautiful room many profitable discussions had taken place between Rohan and his
athr’im
or the officials sent by one prince or another to talk over problems.

As her family arranged themselves on sofas and chairs, Sioned signaled the servants to provide everyone with cool wine and then withdraw. A cup was left for Pol on the side table. Sioned hoped he would take his time; there could be no discussion of danger with him in the room. Not that concern for his safety would frighten him; quite the opposite. He would instead try to find ways of giving everyone the slip to escape the oppressive sense of being watched—thereby increasing the danger.

“With your permission,” Chay said to Rohan, although his expression implied that the request was a mere formality and he would do as he planned with or without permission, “I’ll set Maarken as Pol’s guardian on this Princemarch trip. He ought to get some experience of the place, anyway. Not only for his own education but with an eye to its military layout—if you plan to make him Pol’s field commander eventually, that it.”

“It’s become one of Radzyn’s duties by now,” Rohan replied. “Maarken merits the position by training and wits as well as birth.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the young man responded.

“It’ll be a long while before your father gives up his post, though—despite his advancing old age. I assume there’s more, Tobin.”

“Of course.” She tucked one booted foot beneath her, careless of the velvet upholstery. “I’m worried about what Meath told us regarding this supposed son of Roelstra’s. It didn’t bother me before—the claim is absurd, after all—but the boy might become an annoyance through those who are foolish enough to support him for whatever reasons of their own. It’ll be difficult to tell if they truly believe in his claim or if they’re only pretending to believe for the trouble it’ll cause. What do you plan to do about him, Rohan?”

“Nothing. Not directly anyway. If I even admit that the problem exists, I lend credence to the rumors, you see. Our visit to Princemarch will do more to squelch the hopes of this pretender than anything else. I’m taking enough swords with me to show strength, but only as many as are proper for a royal party. Besides, we’ve been planning the trip for a long while, before these rumors really got started. So it won’t seem as if this is a deliberate bid for the area’s support.”

Tobin nodded her approval. “A hasty journey, previously unannounced, would be taken as a sign of worry and weakness.” She sipped at her wine, then nodded again. “With Maarken along to keep close watch on Pol without his knowing it, he’ll be in a position to learn all he can about Princemarch just in case it comes to a fight.”

“There will be no war.”

Rohan said it softly, but the words were all the more potent for the quiet of his voice.

His sister’s black brows slanted down. “If it’s necessary, you’ll fight. Whatever pretty notions you have about honor and law, there are times when steel is the only answer. You know that as well as I. And Pol’s training will make sure he knows it, too.”

“He will not live by the sword as our father did.”

If Tobin heard the warning in his voice, she ignored it. “Don’t be a fool. I’m not saying Pol ought to enjoy war the way Father did. I’m saying that at times a prince has to fight or he’s no longer a prince.”

Rohan met her gaze calmly. “You’re correct, Tobin. No longer a prince, but a barbarian. And
that
is what I intend my son to learn, much less painfully than I did.”

Into the awkward silence that followed came Pol, all fair hair and bright eye and limitless energy. His excited smile died away as he slammed up against the room’s tension. After a swift inspection of each face, he said, “I can always tell when you’ve been talking about me—you all
stop
talking.”

The peevish tone hit Rohan all wrong. “Perhaps if you knocked at a door and waited for permission to enter, we’d be able to change the subject gracefully.”

Pol blinked and turned crimson. Sioned cast a disgusted glance at her husband and rose. “Come have something to drink,” she said to her son.

He followed her to the side table readily enough, but once there he asked, “Is he angry at me?”

“No, hatchling.”

“I’m not a baby, Mother. When is everybody going to stop treating me like a child?”

“You
were
a child when you left us. We’re just not used to you yet.”

“Well, I’ve grown up,” he stated flatly. “I don’t need to be protected. What could be so awful that you have to stop talking about it when I come into a room?”

Sioned bit her lip. In trying to mend the damage of Rohan’s flash of temper, she had only made things worse. Her hand moved toward Pol’s shoulder, fell back. He was so different, this youth who had returned in place of her little boy, adult lines of cheek and jaw showing in his face now, adult perceptions in his eyes. An ache tightened her throat. She wanted her child back. But Pol was right; he was no longer a child. Yet there
were
things he must not know—and one truth from which he must be protected as long as possible. If she could not hold onto his love and trust now, when he finally found it out she might lose him forever.

“Mother? What were you talking about?”

In her heightened state of nerves she could not face his direct challenge.
Treat me like an adult,
his eyes said.

Maarken saved the moment by asking Pol to explain aspects of squire’s training that they both had in common under Chadric’s direction, and gradually the mood in the room eased. Under the interested questioning of his elders, Pol began to chatter like any other boy who had been away from home and learned a great many things. But Sioned mourned the easy manner of his first greeting, lost when she had disappointed him.

When the wine was gone, Chay took Tobin off to their chambers to rest. Rohan still had his parchments to attend to, as Sioned reminded him sweetly, earning herself a disgusted look. She asked Pol if he’d like to help her supervise the spring planting in the gardens, and tried not to be too hurt when he mentioned a previous promise to spend more time with Myrdal at the guardhouse. The retired commander of the stronghold guard, Maeta’s mother was a particular friend of Pol’s, and Sioned could not deny the old woman the pleasure of his company.

Maarken asked if she would mind if he accompanied her instead, and she accepted his offer with a degree of curiosity. He had no interest at all in herbs and flowers. Strictly speaking, neither did she, particularly; it was her duty as Stronghold’s mistress to make sure it bloomed. They walked the gravel paths and crossed the little bridge arching over the garden stream whose dual purpose was irrigation and beauty. The trickle had swollen with spring runoff from the high Vere Hills and culminated in Princess Milar’s fountain. Sioned spoke with the groundskeepers along the way, attending to her duties with one part of her mind while the rest of her chased an elusive memory. When she and Maarken were alone beside the tall, fluted blossom of water, she caught the memory and smiled.

They had walked this path the morning after he had convinced his parents that he should go to Goddess Keep for more than just rudimentary training as a Sunrunner. Tobin had three rings betokening skills taught her by Sioned with Andrade’s approval, but she had never lived the whole cycle of training. Chay had been frankly opposed to the idea of his son’s education in such things; he had never been entirely comfortable with Tobin’s skills, though he valued the advantage they often gave him. But he was concerned that the powers of a
faradhi
added to those of an important lord would create enmity and suspicion. Sioned had helped Maarken convince Chay that his talents deserved nurturing to their fullest, and the following morning they had strolled the gardens while he tried to find words to express his relief and gratitude.

She sensed that he again needed her support, but waited for him to broach the subject himself. They stood watching his grandmother’s sparkling creation of playful water in the Desert, and at last he spoke.

“About Whitecliff,” he began, then sighed. “It’s not in hopes of finding a wife that I want it made ready. I’ve already found her.”

Sioned nodded slowly, following the dance of tiny crystal drops that plunged into the greater pond and sent out conflicting circles on impact, replaced every instant by another drop and then another. “She’s a Sunrunner.”

“How did you know?”

“If she were not, you would’ve told your parents you had someone specific in mind—perhaps even brought her to Radzyn, or asked that she be invited here for the summer. But because you have not done any of those things, you’re apprehensive about their approval—which points to her rings.”