Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll (34 page)

The oratory was an exquisite thing, a half-dome of faceted Fironese crystal projecting out from the cliffside castle, furnished with white chairs covered by white velvet. By sun, moons, or stars, it would glow. But the sky had turned black shortly after moonrise, clouds the color of smoke obscuring all light. Only the candles shone, and they burned low.

Outside the Ossetian seat of Athmyr, the bodies of father and son would be ablaze now on a shared pyre. Old Prince Chale and his
faradhi
would wait and watch through the night until flesh became ash, and then the Sunrunner would call up a gentle breath of Air to carry the ashes over land that had given the two princes birth, land that they would never rule. Candles would burn in honor of that funeral fire here in this oratory and at similar places in each princedom: the small glass-domed chamber at Davvi’s High Kirat, the central hall of Volog’s court at New Raetia, the
faradhi
calendar room at Graypearl that Pol had described in awed detail. Rohan wondered where Sioned would hold the ritual at Skybowl; Stronghold had a chamber for the purpose, but Skybowl had no such facility. He imagined she would choose a place outdoors by the lake, perhaps even float candles out across the dark water.

The same had been done at Skybowl for his father—of whom Roelstra had spoken here in this very chamber on the night Zehava’s body had burned to ashes in the Desert. Rohan doubted that Roelstra’s elegy had been heartfelt.

Turning from the candles, Rohan glanced up at the crystal ceiling where flickering lights reflected in the etched panes. Where the clear dome met the stone floor thirty paces from him was a table bearing silver and gold plate and two cups of beaten gold. The chunks of uncut amethyst set into the goblets were said to have fallen from the sky with the first sunset. Only one marriage had ever been celebrated with them, that of Roelstra to his only wife, Lallante. Rohan supposed that sooner or later Pol would stand here to wed some suitable girl. The ruler of Princemarch could hardly avoid being married in his own oratory. Yet despite its beauty, Rohan could not banish the chill he sensed within this room. Roelstra had ruled here too long.

He paced silently down the white carpet to the center of the chamber, directly below the place where crystal met smoothed rock high overhead. The panes were set in delicate stone traceries that must have taken years to carve. He admired the workmanship but wondered why he could sense none of the crafters’ joy in creating such beauty. His mother’s gardens at Stronghold—her life’s work and her pride—had a different feel altogether. She and a small army of workers had transformed the barren wards of the castle into a miracle of grace and growing things: every flowerbed, tree, bench, and curve of the little stream bespoke pleasure in the making. His own refurbishing of the Great Hall had something of the same feel to it—artisans delighting in their skills that produced such marvels. This oratory, despite its magnificence, was a cold and lifeless place that not even the gentle candlelight could warm.

He told himself he would feel differently about it once he had viewed it in full sunshine. He would be able to see across the vast canyon to the opposite cliffs, and down to the rush of the Faolain far below. The oratory would not then feel like a crystal bubble clinging in darkness to the side of a mountain, isolated and chill and redolent of his enemy.

Rohan turned quickly as the doors swung open. Pandsala stood there, candlelight limning her body and turning her gray mourning gown and veil to dark liquid silver.

“Everyone is asking for you, my lord.”

“I’ll be down in a moment. How fares my son?”

She smiled, dark eyes glinting with pride. “Charming everyone, of course, just as I expected.”

“Don’t let his pretty manners fool you. He can be a terror when he pleases, and stubborn enough for six.”

“Would he be a boy if he weren’t? My chamberlain’s four sons have been my pages, one after the other, and each more mischievous than the last.” She moved into the room and the doors swung shut behind her. “Because he
is
a boy with those qualities, though, I thought I should warn you. He’s heard about the old custom of proving one’s strength and courage by scaling the cliffs opposite the castle. I’m afraid he’s taken it into his head to try.”

“I’ve heard about it. The idea is to slide back down on the ropes—a little like flying. I can see how that would appeal to him.”

“You’ll forbid it, naturally.”

Rohan chuckled. “Let me tell you something about my hatchling, Pandsala. Forbidding him to do something is tantamount to issuing an open invitation for him to work his way around to doing it anyhow.”

“But it’s too dangerous!”

“Probably.”

“And he’s so young!”

“He’s older than Maarken was when he went to war. Pandsala, if I forbid it, he’ll only go off and do it on his own I could lock him in his rooms and he’d still find a way of getting out and doing just as he pleases. With Pol, you have to use sweet reason and a guile even greater than his own—and sometimes not even
that
works.”

“But, my lord—” she began.

“Let’s go downstairs. I’ll show you something about our stubborn prince.”

Rohan had only just supplied himself with a plate of food and a winecup when his offspring came through the crowd, Maarken right behind him. “Watch,” Rohan whispered to Pandsala, who looked on worriedly as Pol sought permission to test his strength and courage against the cliffs.

“And I was thinking, Father, that it would be good for us politically, too,” he finished with admirable if transparent shrewdness.

“As well as terrific fun,” Rohan added.

Pol nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve done some climbing around Stronghold and Skybowl, and Prince Chadric took all the squires to some rocks near Graypearl for lessons. It was right over the ocean, too, so I know all about how to go climbing over water without getting nervous. May I, Father? Please?”

Rohan pretended to consider, though his decision had already been made—prompted partly by Pandsala’s automatic assumption that he would forbid this. “What arrangements would you make for this feat?”

“Well, I know it’s a little dangerous. But Maarken could come with me if he wants to, and Maeta loves to go climbing—and if we had a group of people who’ve done it before, then they could take the lead and show us how. It won’t be that much of a risk, Father. And if I’m going to be prince here, I really ought to show them what I’m made of.”

Rohan’s lips twitched in a smile. “Maarken, how do you feel about this?”

The young man shrugged. “If he’s determined to do this crazy thing, then I’ll go with him.”

“Hmm. I’ll think it over.”

A flicker of disappointment showed in Pol’s face, but then he decided to put the best possible interpretation on the words. “Thank you, Father!”

A man approached, was introduced as Lord Cladon of River Ussh, and talk turned to other things. When Rohan and Pandsala were comparatively private once more, he turned to her and smiled. “Well?”

“I think I understand, my lord. He thought up ways to convince you it would be safe in order to win your permission. Had you
dictated
those terms, however, he would have been resentful—and defied you.”

“Exactly. A few days from now he’ll have researched the problem and presented me with further precautions for his safety—
and
he’ll know a great deal more about climbing than he does at present.”

“But you’d already made up your mind.”

“He’s right, you know—it would be an excellent thing if he proved himself at so young an age.” He watched as shock widened her eyes, correctly interpreted her expression, and answered it with, “Don’t think I’m not afraid for him, Pandsala. But I can’t wrap him in silk. I can guide his steps, but I won’t prevent him from getting a few bruises. It’s the only way he’ll ever become a man on his own, a prince worthy of the lands he’ll inherit.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but—” She hesitated, then went on, “We’ve all been reminded very painfully today of how quickly a prince’s life can be lost. Pol is simply too valuable to risk.”

“So was I.” He paused, then went on softly, “My parents kept me sheltered until I was thirteen—well past the usual age for fostering. When they did let me go, it was to my cousin Hadaan at Remagev—barely a day’s ride from Stronghold. I had a little more freedom there, but not much. By the time my father’s last war with the Merida came, I was frantic to prove myself, so I marched out disguised as a common soldier. It was a damned foolish thing to do. I could very easily have been killed. But they’d forbidden me to go as the heir, you see. Maeta’s mother, who commanded the Stronghold guard before her, caught me but decided to look the other way. She understood that I’d been more or less driven to it by my parents’ cosseting. My poor mother nearly had heart failure and my father was furious with me. But he also knighted me on the field.”

“And you don’t want Pol driven to the same kind of thing,” Pandsala mused. “Even so, my lord, it’s a terrible chance to take.”

“Sioned will be livid when she finds out, of course. But I can’t help that. I often wonder why I didn’t defy my parents much sooner. Perhaps it was lack of opportunity—but I suspect it was really fear of my father.” He shrugged.

“It was the same for me,” she said, looking anywhere but at him. “We were all terrified of Roelstra. But you never hated your father the way I did mine.”

“With us as examples, do you wonder why I allow Pol the freedom to do this? He won’t have the need to do anything as foolhardy as I did—”

“Or as wicked as I did. We are indeed edifying examples, my lord.” She gave him a tiny smile. “Very well, I understand—but I’ll make sure my best people go with him on the climb.”

“Thank you. It’s all we can ever do, you know—take what precautions we can, and trust to the Goddess’ mercy for the rest.” He sighed ruefully. “Frankly, the whole idea of this scares me silly. But I have to let Pol be who and what he is. He’s going to be, whether I allow it or not—so why fight it?”

“As you wish, my lord.”

“Besides,” Rohan finished with a grin, “my hatchling quite naturally wants to fly. Pandsala, I’d like to meet privately with each of the vassals tomorrow. Will you arrange it for me, please?”

“Of course, my lord.” She paused thoughtfully, searching his eyes. “Do you know, with all the differences between you and my father—both as men and as High Prince—I think it all may come down to one simple thing. My father never said ‘please’ to anybody in his life.”

 

Pol was glad of his thick leather jacket as updrafts from the river far below sent chill gusts along the cliffs. Summer was three-quarters over, and whereas in the Desert and at Graypearl the days would still be searingly hot, here in the mountains clouds had formed again last night. Having finally won permission from his father to make the climb—after four days of alternating pleas with detailed plans—Pol had been frantic lest a late-summer rain spoil his chance. They were due to leave for Waes in two days; the climb had to be this morning or not at all.

He looked down for the first time since beginning the upward struggle, and gulped. He hadn’t realized how far he’d come, how far below him the river now was. He clung more tightly to the iron ring driven into the rock face and forced himself to lift his head, trying to judge the distance to the top and how long it would take to get there. A tug on the rope around his waist signaled that it was time to make the next move across the cliff. He swallowed hard, refusing to admit that he had been a fool to attempt this climb.

As fingers and toes found holds, his confidence returned. This wasn’t much different from scrambling up ragged, wind-sculpted stone in the Vere Hills, except for the distance down. The view was splendid; he really did feel akin to the dragons. He imagined himself equipped with wings, bracing for flight and then soaring out over the gorge, every fiber of his body singing—

“Pol! Pay attention!”

Maeta’s command alerted him, and he was reminded that he definitely was not a dragon. He scrambled up to join her on a tiny ledge, breathing hard.

“Some fun, eh?” She grinned at him. “You’re doing fine. Give Maarken’s rope a tug and let’s get started for the top.”

“How much farther?” He squinted upward.

“About half the time it took us to get this far. Then we can have lunch, rest, and fly back down.”

“I wish we could’ve flown
up.
”

Maeta laughed and rubbed his shoulder affectionately. “It’s the challenge that counts. The privilege of flight has to be earned, you know. Besides, think of the nice, quiet ride back up the canyon when we’re done! I’ll even let you fall asleep on your horse. See you at the top, hatchling.”

She set off again and Pol watched her find the handholds near the next iron ring. Maeta threaded the rope through and tied it off to provide Pol’s support for the next part of his climb, just as she was linked to the man above her for safety. Soon Maarken had joined Pol on the ledge, panting to catch his breath.

“I must’ve been crazy to agree to this!”

“You and me both,” Pol admitted. “I’m running out of fingernails.” He held out hands scraped and bloodied by gripping sharp stone, and grinned at his cousin. “But it’s worth it! Take a look!”

Maarken seemed to inhale the sky and trees and cliffs, his gaze lingering as Pol’s did on the multicolored wild-flowers clinging to the rocks. “Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “But I don’t dare look down—last time I did I nearly lost my breakfast. I don’t think I’ll be able to climb my way out of bed tomorrow! But you’re right, it’s worth it.” He peered across the canyon, and pointed. “Is that your father and Pandsala?”

Pol waved and nearly lost his balance. Maarken steadied him with a firm grip on his shoulder. “Thanks,” he said shakily. “D’you think they can see us?”

“That blue jacket of yours must be visible for half a measure.”