Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll (47 page)

He was standing motionless by the bridge as several men heaved the corpse upright and carried it from the steps. Rohan glanced up and Sioned caught his eyes that mirrored there own weary, helpless anger.

He joined her and Pol, who at last broke the uneasy silence among them. “I’ve never seen you use your knives before, Father.”

Rohan barely looked at him as they started for their tents. “Good at it, aren’t I?” he asked in a bitter tone that Sioned understood and Pol did not. The boy’s cheeks flushed and his lips tightened. Rohan shrugged. “Any idiot can use a knife, Pol. It’s very direct and—heroic. But the results are usually not worth the trouble.”

 

Maarken had never had much use for liquor as a cure for jangled nerves, and vaguely disapproved of people who turned to a bottle in times of stress. But that evening he learned the value of a winecup’s companionship. He sat alone in the growing darkness and welcomed the spurious strength of the Syrene vintage through his veins. After viewing the murdered man, Maarken felt in need of a restorative.

It was not that the corpse had been messy, he told himself as he refilled his cup. The knife had sliced through the man’s throat with incredible skill, and death had been swift. Maarken had been younger than Pol when he’d seen far worse in war—whole battle-fields of men and women hacked into pieces barely recognizable as human. He had seen far more unpleasant deaths.

He rose, pacing the private tent he merited as the almost official Lord of Whitecliff, aware that his knees were not what they should be. He drank more wine. Somehow the murder had shaken him even more than the tragedy of Maeta’s death at Castle Crag. All spring and summer he had known about the problems facing his uncle, but the sight of that green-eyed corpse had made the dangers immediate. His private concerns were trifling compared to the threat posed by the pretender.

Maarken knew how precarious Rohan’s position was. The real difficulty was not even this man’s claim. What it came down to was
faradhi
power. Pol’s personality would go far toward convincing all that he did not have the makings of a tyrant, would not use his Sunrunner gifts in combination with the powers of the High Prince to crush all opposition. But if he was the son of his royal father, he was also the child of his
faradhi
mother. No matter how winning his ways, many feared the two powers combined in one man.

Maarken sat down again and closed his eyes. A picture of the corpse was burned onto his lids: tall, dark-haired, with green eyes wide open to the last of the sunlight. They could hardly display the dead body as evidence against the claimant; there were plenty of green-eyed men in the world. Who was to say that this one had fathered the pretender?

“Damn,” he muttered, clenching his fist around his winecup. There had to be something they could do, some way of convincing people—

“Why all alone in the night, my lord?”

The feminine voice startled him so violently that wine sloshed out of his cup.

A slim shadow moved toward him in the gloom. “You shouldn’t be solitary and sad, my lord. Share your trouble with me.”

Without thinking he called Fire to the wick of a candle. “Chiana?” he asked incredulously. “What are you doing here?”

“You
faradh’im!
Always startling a person!” She laughed lightly and came closer. Her fingers rested on the back of his chair beside his shoulder, and somehow the gesture was more intimate than if she had touched him. “I came to ease your loneliness, my lord.”

“Thank you for the thought, my lady,” he said, remembering his manners at last. “I mean no offense, but I would prefer to be alone. I’m no fit company for a lady tonight.”

She laughed again, low in her throat this time. “I’d wager you’re always excellent company for a woman—especially at night.”

Cool, soft fingers brushed his nape. It had been a long time since he had received caresses from a beautiful woman, but this was the wrong woman. He got to his feet, cursing the wine that had made him light-headed. Chiana gazed up at him, candlelight making her face all soft lips and shining, excited eyes framed by artfully tumbled hair.

“Forgive me, my lady, but—”

“You’re too modest,” Chiana said playfully. “But I can tell, my lord.” Her gaze roamed over his face, down his chest and arms. “Yes, I can definitely tell. . . .”

Even with the chair between them he felt as if she had her hands on him. The wine had not so befuddled him that he gave in to her. Neither had it dulled his powers of reasoning. He knew why she was here, and it was not because of his charms. She was terrified of the pretender and groping toward any man who, by marrying her, would provide her with a noble title to replace the one she feared she was about to lose. But one did not tell a lady she was a scheming little bitch. “I thank you for the compliment, Lady Chiana. It’s as unexpected as it is flattering, coming from a lovely woman. But—”

“Maarken! Maarken, they’re here!”

He sent up brief and heartfelt thanks to the Goddess for providing him with a cousin who occasionally forgot his manners. Chiana backed off as Pol came running into the tent. The boy’s jaw dropped halfway to his knees at the sight of her, but he made a quick recovery.

“Lady Andrade is here, and Father says to hurry,” he said after making a slight bow to Chiana. “I’m sorry to interrupt—”

Chiana’s voice was cool and distant. “I should return to my sister’s tent. I have enjoyed our conversation, Lord Maarken. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to continue it another time.” She bent her knees to Pol. “Your Royal Highness.”

“My lady,” he said as she swept past him. Then he whistled soundlessly. “Maarken, I really am sorry—”

Maarken pinched the candle out. “Being alone with a pretty lady is desirable only when you
like
the lady.”

“If you tell me it’s something I’ll understand when I’m older, I’ll kick you,” Pol replied, grinning. “Come on, Lady Andrade is asking to see you.”

Though Maarken didn’t care much about seeing Lady Andrade, it was difficult to keep his strides from lengthening as he accompanied Pol to the blue pavilion, and even more difficult to keep his expression under control as he entered and his eyes found Hollis. But Pol again forgot his manners.

“He wasn’t with Aunt Tobin and Uncle Chay,” the boy reported. “He was in his own tent with Lady Chiana.”

Maarken turned red. Grateful as he had been to his cousin earlier, now he could cheerfully have strangled the brat. Rohan’s lips twitched with barely suppressed mirth, and Sioned coughed to hide her laughter. Andrade looked him down and up, with a brief stop below his belt. But Hollis reacted not at all. She stood to one side with Andry and a tall, black-haired youth Maarken didn’t know. Her dark blue eyes were circled beneath with bruises of weariness. She looked thinner, and the supple energy that usually shone from her seemed tarnished somehow.

“Well,” Andrade said, breaking the awkward silence. “Your own tent now, eh? Chay must have given you Whitecliff, and about time, too.”

“He has, my Lady.” Maarken bowed to her.

“Isn’t somebody going to ask me to sit down?” she complained. “And I could do with something to drink.”

Maarken and Andry performed squire’s duties as Pol and the black-haired boy brought extra chairs. Hollis sank into hers with a long sigh, and the boy hovered behind her with an almost proprietary air.

“Pleasant trip?” Maarken whispered to his brother as they poured out cups of wine.

Andry grimaced. “Hell on horseback. Remind me not to tell you about it.”

They finished distributing the wine as their parents entered. Andrade waited while they greeted Andry, then directed them to chairs as if this were her pavilion, not Rohan’s. But they were all long accustomed to her ways.

“Sorin has duty tonight with Volog and can’t come,” Chay said as he sat down. “Goddess! Do you know how depressing this is? All my sons can look me straight in the eye! It’s not fair. They started out so short!”

“Perhaps you’re only shrinking due to rampant decrepitude,” Andrade commented. “I hope the rot doesn’t extend to your brains, any of you. What are you going to do, now that Masul’s real father is dead?”

Rohan leaned back in his chair. “You don’t miss much, do you?”

“My eyes and ears may be old, boy, but they still function. What are your plans?”

“I’d rather hear about yours. Your Sunrunner Kleve was keeping an eye on Kiele for you, wasn’t he? What did he find out?”

It wasn’t often that anyone managed to startle the Lady of Goddess Keep. Maarken glanced at Hollis, prepared to share an amused glance at Andrade’s astonishment. But Hollis was staring into her untasted wine, and the black-haired boy was hovering even closer.

“How did you know about Kleve?” Andrade demanded.

As gently as possible, he said, “We received word today—and proof—that he’s dead. They cut the rings from his fingers by taking the fingers themselves, Andrade. He probably died for something he knew. Do you have any idea what it was?”

Andrade’s face was immobile. After a few moments she whispered, “No. I—I knew he was dead. Riyan told me. But he didn’t say how it happened.” Rallying, she took a long swallow of wine. “Kleve is dead, and his information with him. Masul’s real father is dead, and his testimony with him. You haven’t managed this very well, Rohan.”

Pol had been standing between his parents’ chairs, listening wide-eyed. But at this point he stiffened and took a step forward, frowning at the implied insult to his father. Maarken could have told him to save his indignation; Andrade spoke that way to everybody.

She noticed, as she noticed everything. “Meath tells me you can call Fire,” she said abruptly to the boy.

“I can, my Lady.”

“What else can you do without ever having been taught?”

“I don’t know,” Pol replied boldly. “I’ve never tried.”

She gave a bark of laughter. “You’re the son of your father, all right.”

“And of my mother,” Pol added. Maarken hid a slight smile. If Pol was awed by their formidable kinswoman, he was determined not to show it.

“Mmm, yes. And of your mother,” she said. “Tobin, take your husband and sons to your own tent. I have no time for family news right now. Pol, you may go with them. Hollis, Sejast, go tell Urival to hurry up. I’m tired and I want to rest in my own bed sometime before midnight.”

Andrade watched them obey her orders, not missing the look Pol gave his parents as if asking whether or not he had to do as Andrade told him. She approved the boy’s spirit, but it also made her feel very old. It would take all her energy and authority to make a good, obedient Sunrunner of him. If anyone could.

“I want to know your plans,” she said to Rohan again when the others had gone. “And don’t tell me you’re going to trust to the truth. This isn’t a game played by nice rules.”

“What would you suggest?” Sioned asked coldly. “Buying cooperation would certainly be effective—it would convince everyone that we doubt our own position!”

“Truth may be an excellent defense,” Andrade snapped. “But what we need right now is a plan of attack.”

“I thought you’d have everything all plotted out for us,” Sioned retorted. “And all we’d have to do is speak our lines. You’re the one who hasn’t managed this very well, Andrade.”

She was silent for a moment, searching the face of her most beloved student. “When will you believe that I never wanted mindless obedience from any of you? If you had been an idiot, I would not have chosen you for Rohan.”

“I’ll believe it when you prove it. You’ve just done the opposite again by calling it
your
choice, not ours.”

It was an old debate between them and one that suddenly wearied her. “I put you both in the way of choosing. But I don’t give orders to anyone but my Sunrunners. And you’ll note that I no longer give
you
any orders at all. I’ve learned that it does no good.”

“And do you tell everyone that I’m no longer a Sunrunner?”

“Stop this,” Rohan said quietly. “Andrade, you asked my plans and answered your own question. The only weapon we have is the truth. I can’t bargain or cajole or command my way out of this. Masul must be repudiated or Pol’s claim to Princemarch will never be secure. The only thing I can trust is the truth.”

“And not me,” Andrade whispered, feeling very old again, telling herself it was only fatigue. “
My
truth is suspect.” She wrapped her fingers around the winecup, staring at the bracelets on either wrist, linked to her rings by thin chains. “It galls me. Nothing to do with Roelstra ever happens in ways I can control.” She gave in to impulse and flung the goblet to the floor. “Goddess! Why could he not have died forever and left us all in peace?” An instant later, humiliated by her outburst, she shrugged irritably. “Your pardon. I’ll see you get a new rug to replace the one I just ruined.”

Sioned spoke, her voice soft, almost apologetic. “My Lady—though I no longer wear any ring but my husband’s, the ones you gave me are still on my hands. Tell us what you think we ought to do.”

More moved than she would admit, Andrade shook her head. “I’m tired. We’ll talk tomorrow.” She pushed herself to her feet and muttered, “Hasn’t Urival raised that damned tent yet?”

Urival had, and was now ordering it furnished with carpets, tables, chairs, beds, and other amenities from the baggage wains. Segev assisted him and the other Sunrunners after finding a chair for Hollis to rest in. He had had no opportunity today to give her more
dranath
and she was showing the effects of withdrawal. Segev hurried about his tasks and at last escaped with the excuse of finding some wine. He paused in a shadow in the growing enclave of Andrade’s white tents and pulled the stopper from the bottle. Not trusting his abilities at sleight-of-hand to get the herb into only one cup, he sprinkled the
dranath
into the bottle itself. One drink of it would cause nothing more than a headache for someone not previously dosed.