Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll (46 page)

“Oh, fine. But her tale was quite amazing. It seems—” She hesitated just the right amount of time, then went on in a low voice, “Kiele, there’s some man in Waes saying he’s the true father of this pretender.”

Kiele’s eyes went wide, but she cheated Pandsala of most of her real reaction to this news. “Incredible! What can this mean?” she breathed.

“It means everyone is looking for him. Naydra was approached for money to keep him quiet—that as our father’s daughter, she’d naturally wish Rohan out of Princemarch. How could he think any of us would want that? Father gave us nothing—and Rohan has given us everything.”

“Oh, yes, he most certainly has,” Kiele said earnestly, and again Pandsala was forced to admire her for keeping a completely straight face.

“I came to you, as another loyal servant of the High Prince, to ask if you’d set your people looking for this man. They know Waes much better than mine do. If he
is
the real father of this pretender, then his truth must be heard. And if he’s not—” She shrugged. “If he’s not, he’ll have to be taught a lesson for lying about such serious matters of state. Will you help, Kiele?”

“With all my heart, Pandsala. It’s shocking, isn’t it, this whole tale of Father’s possibly having a son. And now this man with his story—” Suddenly Kiele dimpled. “Oh, what if it’s true? What if Palila really did get herself pregnant by a groom or a cook or some such, in hopes of giving Father a son?”

Pandsala gave her a genuine laugh. “I wouldn’t have put anything past that bitch, would you? Goddess, do you remember how much we all hated her? To tell the truth, my dear, I’m rather astounded to find you giving house room to her daughter.” She laughed again as the shot struck home.

“That little—” Kiele bit her lips shut too late. Pandsala nodded slowly, smiling. “Chiana is my guest here, and has been a great help to me in planning the
Rialla,
” she went on in a desperate attempt to recoup.

“I lived with her for six long years at Goddess Keep,” Pandsala pointed out. “Frankly, my dear sister, it would almost be worth it to find out that this pretender really is who he says he is, if it would humiliate Chiana!”

Kiele sat back in her chair, hands and arms limp at her sides, her mouth open. Pandsala laughed softly.

“Can’t you imagine it? Disgraced, deprived of status, revealed as the daughter of a servant. It’s what Ianthe and I planned for her at her birth—and she’s the reason I was banished to Goddess Keep in the first place. I have to admit I’d dearly love the sight of a daughter of her insufferable mother earning her keep as a scullery drudge!”

“It presents an interesting picture,” Kiele acknowledged with a sudden smirk. “Actually, I invited her here in hopes she’ll find someone to marry her and take her off all our hands. I know Naydra has had enough of her, and I’m growing more than a little weary of her airs and graces, myself.”

“In a way, it’s a pity this pretender’s claim
isn’t
true.” She watched that one sink in, and waited for the questions. They were not long in coming.

“It was the oddest night, wasn’t it? Of course, you were there,” Kiele said casually. “But you know, I can’t help but wonder, what with all the confusion—what
really
happened, Pandsala? Only you and Ianthe ever really knew.”

“And Lady Andrade,” Pandsala added smoothly. “You’re right about the circumstances. Sheer chaos. But I
was
there, Kiele. And I know. That’s why I can’t allow the issue to be obscured. Will you do me the favor of having your people look for this man in the city and at the encampment and the Fair? They ought be able to find a stranger of a certain description, even with all the other strangers around. He may adopt the colors of some lord or prince, but I doubt it, as anyone legitimately in service would know all his fellows. He’d be in danger of challenge.”

“He has no master of his own, then?”

“Not that I know of. He was wearing plain clothing when he spoke to Naydra. Will you do it, Kiele? I’d be in your debt.”

“I’ll be glad to help,” Kiele said fervently. “What does he look like?”

She gave every detail Naydra had been able to recall under Pandsala’s questioning, which had been a great deal fiercer than Rohan’s. Kiele then escorted her out, all sweetness and cooperation, and the two women parted on the best of terms. Pandsala walked back to her own tents, where twenty servants waited for her as ordered. They had abandoned the colors of Princemarch and were dressed in plain tunics.

“Watch every servant leaving Lady Kiele’s tent. They will be looking for a tall, green-eyed man. Now, heed me carefully: this man is
not
to reach my sister. Secure him and bring him to me at once, safe and unharmed. Not a word to the High Prince’s people or anyone else. Most especially do not let Kiele’s people know who you are. There will be substantial reward for your success. Are there any questions? Good.”

 

Rohan couldn’t quite live up to his words about letting things happen as they would. He snatched a moment to confer with Tallain, instructing him to alert all the guards and servants to the description of a certain man Rohan wished to speak to. If they saw him, he was to be brought to the pavilion at once.

“But tell them not to be obvious about it,” he finished. “No fuss, and no searching tents or questioning everyone they meet.”

By late afternoon Rohan had abandoned the parchments that demanded his attention in favor of a meander outside by the river. He excused dereliction of duty by reasoning that he needed fresh air to clear his head. He had never been very good at lying to himself.

As casually as he had left his pavilion—and with the same excuse he’d given Tallain—Sioned appeared at his side. “Lovely afternoon for a walk, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Lovely,” he echoed.

“Everything’s arranged for our various parties,” she went on idly as they neared the riverbank. “Food enough for an army, and enough wine to float half Lleyn’s merchant fleet.”

“That’s good.”

“Pol tells me he’s giving me a present to wear to the Lastday banquet. But he won’t say what it is.”

“First I’ve heard of it.” He plucked a flower from a bush and began shredding the petals.

“Confess, Rohan—what you’d really like to do is go through every tent and house and cottage within a hundred measures.”

“If I admit to it, will you?” He smiled at her.

“There’s not really much chance of finding him, is there?”

“Not much.”

They continued along in companionable silence for a time, heading for the bridge that crossed the Faolain. People were returning from the Fair loaded down with packages and satchels, discussing purchases and current rumors. Rohan and Sioned went mostly unnoticed in the crowd, for both were plainly dressed and kept their hands with the telltale rings in their pockets. Some few recognized them, but at a slight shake of the head from either merely bowed slightly and went on their way.

“Plenty of people here this summer,” Rohan observed.

“More than enough to blend in with, wouldn’t you say?”

“Except if you happen to be a young prince with two zealous guardians. Look.” He pointed to where their son walked along the river, Maarken and Ostvel in close attendance.

“It seems none of us can stay put for the afternoon,” Sioned murmured with a wry smile.

“I can’t say I blame us.” He led her out of the crowd and toward Pol. “I wonder where Riyan is,” he asked suddenly. “Clutha’s here, but Riyan hasn’t come by to greet Ostval yet.”

“I expect he’s been too busy. He was in Waes this summer, you know, keeping an eye on Lyell for Clutha. But he wasn’t at the residence when we had dinner there. Chiana said he’d ridden to the Faolain crossing to meet Clutha’s party.” She waved to Pol as he hurried up the slope toward them. “She seemed rather put out, probably because she didn’t get anywhere with Riyan.”

“My love, the boy has
taste!
But I’d like to talk to him. Perhaps he’s heard something.”

“I’ll ask Clutha to send him by tonight.” She smiled as Pol approached and gave them a courtly bow and a mischievous smile.

“Have you been over at the Fair?” Pol asked. “I actually got to see it for a little while,” he added with a half-teasing, half-resentful glance over his shoulder at Maarken and Ostvel. “I had some business to settle.”

“My present?”

“Could be!” Sioned hinted.

“Whatever it is, I hope it fits,” she replied, rumpling his blond hair. She turned to Maarken then and added, “I assume you took a little time for yourself and spoke to at least a dozen goldsmiths about wedding necklets.”

The young man made a face at her, and Ostvel chided, “Now, Sioned. Don’t fuss the boy. Besides, it was only half a dozen. I counted.”

They were just about to start back to the Desert tents when someone in the crowd nearby shouted a warning. There was a scuffle on the bridge and people scattered from the steps, screaming. A tall, ill-dressed man lurched against the railing. Gouts of blood spurted from his neck.

“Sweet Goddess—someone’s killed him!” a man’s voice cried.

“There they are! Grab them, don’t let them get away!” Rohan and Ostvel were already running for the steps. Pol would have done the same but for Sioned’s firm grip on his shoulder—and it took all her strength to hold him. Maarken stood between them and the bridge, scanning the crowd warily with sword drawn, ready to defend them if necessary.

But it was Rohan who needed a sword—a weapon he had not carried for the length of Pol’s life. A man wearing yellow and brown surged from the knot of frightened people and leaped for him, blade gleaming. Rohan’s boot-knives were in his hands instantly, and he fought with all the swift grace and skill of one born to wield a blade. Ostvel grappled with a second man in Merida colors who jumped him before he had the chance to draw his sword. They rolled down the slope and splashed into the river.

“Father!” Pol cried, struggling against Sioned’s grasp.

The battle was over quickly. Very few were a match for Rohan in a knife-fight; this man was not one of them. He was forced up the steps of the bridge, bleeding from a dozen gashes. At last he turned, wild-eyed, and flung himself over the rails into the swift-flowing river. He surfaced once, arms flailing. Hurtled downriver by the vicious current, caught in an undertow, he screamed and vanished.

Ostvel had meantime managed to prevent his attacker from drowning him and was instead encouraging the man to breathe water by holding his head under in the sandy shallows. Rohan helped Ostvel drag the man out of the river. They shook him, slapped his face, and after a time he choked and vomited.

Sioned allowed Pol to escape her grasp, and Maarken followed him down to the banks. The crowd huddled nearby, murmuring and amazed. No one but Sioned remembered the dying man on the steps.

She went to him, and saw at once that nothing could help him. His throat had been sliced clean through, the whiteness of bone visible through a gaping slash that had ceased to gush blood with the ending of his heartbeat. His sleeve had caught on a nail and he hung limply, his open green eyes seeming to stare right through her.

As she descended the steps a woman pushed through the crowd, dragging a reluctant captive with her. Sioned tensed, for the woman wore no identifying colors or badge of service.

“Commander Pellira, your highness, of the regent’s guard,” the woman said, bowing. “I regret we weren’t fast enough to catch the others.”

“Who’s this?” Sioned asked softly.

“I’m not a murderer!” The captive had stopped trying to get away. “I was only coming back from the Fair when she grabbed me!”

“Tell her grace the truth!” Pandsala’s guard snapped. “He was following the dead man over there. I know, because
I
was following
him.
”

“Take him to our pavilion and watch him,” Sioned told her, suddenly very tired. “We’ll question him later.”

She stood beside Pol and Maarken as Ostvel worked on the second assassin. Rohan propped him up as he shuddered and gulped in air, his gratitude at being alive warring with sheer terror.

Rohan stood up, blood streaking his jaw from a knife-graze, and met Sioned’s gaze. She shook her head, and he sighed quietly.

“This one will live,” he told her.

“Merida colors,” Ostvel grated, his voice sounding bruised.

“No,” Pol said. “Father, look at your hands, and Ostvel’s.” He gestured to Rohan’s fingers, stained brown and yellow from the man’s tunic. “He’s not Merida. The colors were dyed into them only recently—and not very well. See how it’s run all over your hands? And why would they so obviously wear their own colors, anyway? That’s not the Merida style.”

“You’ve sharp eyes,” Ostvel acknowledged. “But if not Merida, then who?”

“Why don’t we ask him?” Rohan prodded the man in the leg with the toe of his boot. “Have him brought to our camp and dried off. And I think you’re due for a change of clothes, Ostvel, before you catch your death of a chill. Have the dead man brought along as well,” he added.

“Dead?” Pol glanced over to the bridge.

“Yes. Very.” Sioned felt an irrational desire to hold her son to her heart, protect him from all that was ugly and foul in this world. She contented herself with brushing her fingertips against his shoulder. “Will you help me up the slope, Pol?”

He put his arm around her waist and she was comforted by his closeness, his warmth, the living strength of him next to her. Untested, untried, unblooded—but he had grown nearly as tall as she over the summer, and would soon be a man. One did not try to protect men from life. Especially not princes.

She heard Maarken order that the drowned man’s corpse be recovered if possible from downriver. She heard Ostvel’s cough, the assassin’s whining protests, the murmurs of the slowly dispersing crowd. But she did not hear her husband’s voice, and when she had gained the top of the riverbank she turned to look for him.