Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll (21 page)

“I was just thinking that it
is
possible to drown in a tub, even if you’re not a Sunrunner.”

“Don’t be absurd. We splashed most of the water onto the floor.”

“Ostvel knows us too well. We got the suite with the best bathroom drain.” She pointed to the little grill set into the floor tiles.

They found further evidence of their host’s thoughtfulness in the main chamber which connected to the bathroom through a dressing area. Silk robes had been laid out on the bed, and two comfortable chairs faced each other across a table laden with dinner.

“Ostvel keeps the best cook in either of my princedoms, damn him,” Rohan said after finishing off a miraculous concoction of hot pastry wrapped around chilled fruit. He stretched, rubbed his silk-clad shoulders, and sighed. “You don’t suppose I could connive him into a trade, do you?”

Sioned poured out the last of the wine and shook her head. “We might send our cooks up here for a while though, to learn a few things.”

“I doubt it. His resident magician trained in Waes, and they don’t give up their secrets. Not even to High Princes. And speaking of secrets, Tobin let it slip yesterday about the dragon gold where Pol heard her.”

“He had to know sometime,” she said philosophically. “I assume you’re going to make the revelation properly dramatic?”

“Sneak him into a darkened cave and suddenly light a torch, you mean?” He laughed. “It’s an idea. Sort of like the way we found out, remember? I’ll never forget the shine of the sand and digging through it with your Fire over my shoulder.”

“Actually, you might ask Pol to conjure the Fire for you. I’ve tested him, Rohan. He’s an instinctive talent. It’s uncanny.”

“If Andrade thinks she had her hands full with Andry, she’s going to get a shock when it comes Pol’s turn at Goddess Keep. I’ve been thinking about that, by the way. If he’s knighted at eighteen, it will be a
Rialla
year and we can give him a send-off to Andrade from Waes itself—making it very obvious that he’s going to be a fully trained
faradhi
as well as a prince.”

“Not exactly subtle,” she remarked.

“And if we tried to do it less than publicly, the other princes would grow even more suspicious than they are right now.”

“It was always comes back to that, doesn’t it?” she mused, propping her elbows on the table. “Pol makes them
very
nervous, with the potential for all that power. But he’ll have Maarken to show him how it’s done, and there couldn’t be a better example—not for him or for the other princes.”

“Tobin and Chay are so proud of him they’re ready to burst,” Rohan agreed. “What a family my sister produced! Two
faradh’im
and another son who bids fair to becoming an even finer knight than his father. Volog’s last letter almost glowed. He’s going to knight Sorin this year, did I tell you? Goddess, they’re all growing up so fast.”

“I wish we didn’t have to send Pol back to Dorval. Laugh at me if you like, but I hate missing any part of his life.”

“I’m not laughing, Sioned. But it’s best for him to be at Graypearl. He’s learning so much from Lleyn and Chadric. And it’s safer there.”

“The Merida—”

“—threatened once in the years he’s been there. And it happened outside the palace. We can’t keep him wrapped in silk, and he’d never stand for it if we tried. You wouldn’t want a son who did.”

She sighed. “I know, I know. But I can’t help worrying.”

Rohan got to his feet and stretched again. “We should be up early tomorrow,” he reminded her. “We’ll go out and have a look at the dragons, then I’ll take Pol on a tour of the caves.”

“Do you want me to try and touch a dragon tomorrow?” She joined him in bed after draping her robe over a chair.

Rohan gathered her close beneath the light sheet, stroking her damp hair. “It might be interesting. They’re all thinking about nothing other than mating, and who knows what you might sense—and want to act on?”

“Don’t you just wish!” she retorted, biting his shoulder.

“Stop that. Or at least do it as if you mean it.”

She raised her head and looked into bright blue eyes that danced with humor and desire. “If this is middle age, then it’s a wonder we both survived our youth!”

 

Chay leaned back in bed, a thoughtful frown furrowing his brow. “Tobin. . . .”

She stopped brushing her long black hair. “You honor my ears with speech, O light of my eyes?”

“Don’t be impudent, woman, or I’ll beat you senseless.”

“You and what army?”

“Well. . . .” He cleared his throat. “Tobin, that boy is too damned perfect.”

“What boy? Pol? What’s wrong with him?”

“Just that. Nothing’s wrong with him except that there’s nothing wrong with him. He adores his mother, worships his father, is reasonably obedient, doesn’t pick his nose in public, washes behind his ears, and is entirely too smart for his age.”

“And this is cause for complaint?”

“It’s unnatural. No, it
is,
” he insisted when she laughed. “He doesn’t get in trouble. Our boys were never so well-behaved.”

“Or so clean,” she added, grinning.

“I want to know what’s wrong with him.”

“Nothing, according to you.”

“That’s the whole point. Consider Rohan at his age.”

“My darling brother was perfect, too. Just ask him.”

“He was the slyest, wickedest, most impossible brat I ever met. He just never got caught at it.”

“Well, perhaps Pol’s like him—too clever to get caught.”

“I don’t think so. Not that he’s not clever. I mean. But I don’t think he has to use it to keep himself out of mischief. I wish he deserved a few swats now and then. It’s good for the character.”

“Are you aware that this is one of the most ridiculous conversations we’ve ever had?” She slid into bed beside him.

“No, it’s not. The prize for that goes to anything we said to each other before the first time I kissed you. Thousands of words, all of them a complete waste of time.”

“So is this discussion.” She made several unsubtle movements designed to distract him.

“Stop that.”

“Two more ridiculous words.” She gave him a look of vast patience. “Chay, Pol is a polite, respectful, mannerly, conscientious fourteen-year-old boy.” Snuggling back into his embrace, she added, “But don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll grow out of it soon.”

 

Maarken had been bred to the Desert through at least fourteen generations on both sides of his family. He loved the wildness of the land, knew its moods, respected its dangers. He asked nothing more of a day than to spend it watching the delicate sunrise colors flare into dazzling noon, then slowly mellow to the rose and purple shadows of dusk that gave way to sparkling black skies and silvered dunes. He relished the heat that seeped into his bones, the soft whispers of sand beneath his feet, the shimmer-visions that danced enticingly just out of reach. In this place where others could not even survive, his people had thrived; he had his share of pride in the accomplishment, his share of love for the harsh land that, testing them, had not found them wanting.

But though he intended to spend his life in the Desert, at present it was the last place he wanted to be. A ride of thirty measures, a long walk, and hours of waiting had not sweetened his mood. He crouched in a sandy hollow watching dragons, and chafed at the slow passage of the sun across the sky.

Hollis had promised to contact him sometime today. Her duties at Goddess Keep varied, and it was uncertain when she could be alone. His mind understood; but his heart, like that of any other ardent lover, resented anything that diverted her from thoughts of him and him alone. His sense of humor provided a balance between the two extremes, for he knew she could scarcely go through her day languishing over him, nor would he want her to. He also knew she would have laughed herself breathless at the very thought. Still, he told himself, she was supposed to be in love with him. Surely she could make time to reach across the sunlight to him, if only for a little while.

Boredom did not help his temper, either. He had chosen to join the observation party for something to do that would keep him out in the sun and reasonably occupied, but thus far absolutely nothing had happened. The she-dragons, back from an early morning foray to feed, lolled in the sand, baking their egg-swollen hides. The immature dragons had been chased off for the duration, though Maarken knew they had probably found some vantage point, just as the humans had. Of the sires there was no sign at all, although the occasional distant roar from the canyons made everyone start in surprise. But the females paid not the slightest attention to the bellowings of their mates; they only yawned.

Maarken glanced at Pol, who sat beside him in the sand. The boy’s dusky yellow-brown cloak was pulled around him, the hood up to protect his blond head from the heat. He looked like a miniature tent. Maarken grinned, seeing the rest of the group spread out along the dunes like a little village of Isulki tents, all in lightweight cloaks that blended with Desert colors. Dragons were keenly sensitive to color, as Feylin had discovered some years ago.

She had conducted an experiment involving some humiliated sheep dyed garish shades of blue, orange, scarlet, and purple, which the dragons scrupulously avoided in favor of their unaltered tan and white brethren. Maarken remembered the trouble Feylin had taken to make sure no scent of dye clung to the wool, and especially he recalled the chaos they’d watched from a hilltop as the poor undyed, unsuspecting sheep had tried to escape thirty-five gleeful young dragons presented with a free meal.

He had to chuckle under his breath as memory stirred of the subsequent experiment. Feylin had used more subtle shades this time, browns and grays that were near the usual colors of sheep. The dragons had not been so choosy that time, and it had been concluded that protective coloration would only work if the most lurid hues were used. They had all had a good long laugh at the idea of convincing shepherds to watch over flocks of purple sheep.

Still, the tests had shown that dragons were sensitive to color. Maarken adjusted the hood of his own taze-brown cloak and recalled the shock of bumping into a dragon on the sunlight. He had talked it over with Sioned at great length, agreeing with her that it might just be possible to pattern and understand dragon colors. But the problems presented were serious ones.

Those not
faradhi
never understood the limitations of the gifts. A steady source of light was essential. A cloud over the sun or moons, a venture timed too close to sunset or moonset—and shadows drowned all color. Shadow-lost was the most hideous death a Sunrunner could face. Spark of mind gone with the lost color-pattern of thought and personality, the body lived for only a little while longer in consciousless, empty void.

Maarken fixed his gaze on the great lolling dragons half a measure from where he sat. What if a
faradhi
in contact with a dragon was pulled into a cave or the shadow of a mountain? What if the dragon flew into fog, or from day into night? No one but Sunrunners comprehended the vulnerability of their kind to darkness. He wondered if Rohan had any idea of the real dangers—or if Sioned would tell him.

The pair were seated together a little beyond Pol, two matching triangular tents of dull gold silk. They would have been anonymous but for the small dragon cypher stitched at the right shoulder of each garment, the same symbol that appeared on Pol’s cloak. Other princes had adopted Rohan’s innovation of a device in addition to colors, and some were quite beautiful—Ossetia’s golden wheat-sheaf on dark green, Fessenden’s silver fleece on sea-green. The
athr’im
were clamoring for similar privileges now, and the
Rialla
this year would decide if such were to be granted. Thus far only one of the lords had been given the right to use a cypher with his colors. Maarken smiled and glanced to his left, where his parents sat side-by-side, their tan cloaks distinguished by the symbol Rohan had given them: on a red field bound in blue, a sword was stitched in silver thread, signifying the role of Radzyn’s lord in defending the Desert. On Chay’s pennant and battle standard the whole was bordered in white, and looked magnificent. Maarken dreamed a little of the time when he would give Hollis a cloak carrying that symbol. . . .

His mother looked around at him then, and Maarken tensed slightly as if suspecting she had read his thought. But she only smiled and rolled her eyes expressively, and he grinned back. She had the least patience for sitting still of anyone he had ever known. She hated lack of physical activity, and even when discussing a problem she tended to pace, drum her fingers, tap her feet, shift position constantly. Her activist approach to everything was occasionally her husband’s despair; she believed that there was nothing in her world that could not be helped, solved, or conquered if only one got up and did something about it. Rohan was her opposite in that way, as in most others; he believed in allowing things to develop, in not forcing events. In the very personal matter of Hollis, Maarken knew he could count on his uncle’s quiet support, and that was a help. But if Tobin decided she approved of Hollis, she would do everything in her considerable powers to facilitate the match. Maarken did not like to think what she was capable of if she did not approve of his Choice.

It amused him that his quiet, serene Hollis was so different from his mother. She would never fly into a tearing rage, give imperious commands, or escalate a difference of opinion into a shouting match. Tobin did all these things with as much relish as she lived the rest of her life. Maarken adored his mother—but he did not want to marry a copy of her.

Without warning a dragonsire trumpeted a challenge across the dunes. Maarken nearly jumped out of his skin. The deep, hoarse cry echoed all the way out to the Long Sand. Feylin stirred from her perch on the highest dune and slid down to where Sioned and Rohan sat. Maarken strained to hear their whispers, and saw his uncle and aunt straighten expectantly. A ripple of alertness went through the she-dragons as a shadow appeared across the sand, then another, then another. The sires were ready at last.