Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll (52 page)

Rohan nodded slowly. “You honor me, Riyan. Have Tallain return with you to Clutha’s camp. If anyone asks, he is to say you were summoned by me when you rode in. That should excuse you from any difficulties with Halian. As for your absence today—”

“I’m answerable to Prince Clutha, my lord. Not Halian.”

“I understand. But let me know if there’s any problem.”

“Yes, my lord.” He bowed and started for the door, then paused and turned. “I have a favor to ask. Will you make sure they take a long time to die?”

Ostvel made a sound low in his throat. Rohan merely nodded. “Yes, Riyan. Both Masul and Kiele will be a very long time dying.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Riyan bowed again, satisfied, trusting his prince as implicitly as he trusted his father, and left them.

Ostvel picked up the saddlebags and held them to his chest. “You know what the penalty is for murdering a
faradhi.
”

“Yes. But not yet. Not until he’s been disproved in his claim. That ties my hands, Ostvel.” His fists clenched as if tightening around Masul’s throat. “Sweet Goddess,” he whispered, “how dearly I’d love to kill him
now.
” Then he looked up. “Riyan must be watched very carefully. If Masul suspects anything, his life will be worthless. Have you friends among the Sunrunners Andrade brought with her?”

Ostvel nodded. “I’ll make it a personal favor, nothing that Andrade need concern herself with.”

“Good. It will turn out as we need it to, my friend. We haven’t come this far and done so much to see it all ruined now.”

Ostvel bowed slightly. “I never believed any differently, my prince,” he said softly.

After he had gone, taking the saddlebags with him, Rohan murmured, “I wish I could believe with you, my friend.”

P
rincess Alasen was a past mistress of the art of escaping any es cort her father chose to set over her. Simplicity itself in and around the castle of New Raetia on Kierst, freedom was even easier to arrange in the crush of people on their way to the races. Among them, Alasen became only a young girl in a plain dress, anonymous unless one noted her father’s silver-flask emblem stitched on the tiny leather purse at her belt.

A canopy of green silk had been raised above the royal enclosure, and the stands were filling rapidly. Much of the crowd veered off to find good seats, but Alasen continued on to the paddocks, where young men soon to be knighted were to demonstrate their horsemanship before the racing began.

She found a place at the rails and propped her elbows on the painted wood to watch. Her father’s squire, Sorin of Radzyn Keep, led fourteen highborn youths on magnificent horses into the grassy meadow, pausing to acknowledge the cheers of friends and relatives assembled to watch. They began a formal ride around the enclosed area, changing gaits and directions with invisible signals to their mounts, cutting diagonals and riding intricate patterns in perfect formation. Sorin rode one of his father’s horses, an elegant dapple-gray mare with a black mane and tail; Alasen wondered about the chances of convincing her father to purchase the animal for her and decided they were fairly good. Volog was in excellent humor despite the scandal of Masul’s appearance, and his private talks with the High Prince had been much to his liking. He was pleased, too, that she had formed a friendship with Cousin Sioned. It might be possible for her to coax him into buying the mare, even without its being a wedding present.

Alasen was under no illusions as to why her father had brought her to Waes this year. Young men had been presented for her inspection at New Raetia for two years now—rather late for a princess, but then she was Volog’s last and favorite child, whom he wanted to keep with him as long as possible. But she would be twenty-three this autumn, and it was time she married. If she was disinclined to accept any of the young men who came to Kierst, then Volog was determined that she look the rest of them over at the
Rialla.
But he expected her to choose a husband, and she knew it.

Sorin rode into the center of the paddock by himself, showing off more fanciful maneuvers—curvettes and flying leaps designed to flaunt a rider’s skill and impress potential customers with the horse’s quality. Lord Chaynal stood a little way down the railing from Alasen, critical eyes noting every nuance of his son’s performance. Many of the other horses being ridden today were his as well, the rest belonging to Lord Kolya of Kadar Water—Chaynal’s only serious rival in horse-breeding. The two holdings had enjoyed generations of friendly competition, scorning and degrading each other’s horses with cheerful predictability at each
Rialla.

Alasen applauded her approval of Sorin’s skills and waved as he rode past the railing to collect well-deserved accolades. He grinned and winked at her. He certainly was the best-looking of all the young men—long and lanky, with his father’s chiseled features. He was the best rider, too. Alasen’s pride in him was that of an elder sister, and it was a relief to them both that the warmth of their friendship was untouched by Fire. Their parents had once or twice discussed the possibility of a match, but nothing had ever come of it. She and Sorin laughed heartily at the very notion. He would make a wonderful husband for some woman, but not her. For all his twenty winters and many knightly accomplishments, Sorin was like a great playful colt who still bumped his knees and nose. Alasen was a little surprised to see him so self-possessed and grown-up today.

She wondered suddenly what his brother Andry was like, the twin who had rejected the usual nobleman’s training in order to become a Sunrunner. The seriousness of his goals was probably reflected in his personality, she mused—all the playfulness and humor she liked so much in Sorin schooled out of Andry during his years at Goddess Keep.

Other young men were taking their turns now, and Alasen’s eye was caught by a splendid Radzyn sorrel ridden by a youth wearing Meadowlord’s light green. The squire made his mare dance delicately across the paddock at an impossible angle, and the onlookers gasped with pleasure as the horse changed directions with the airy grace of a feather in a wayward summer breeze. The young man was of middling height with the dark coloring of Fironese mountain folk, and not half so handsome as Sorin. But as he rode past her, one sight of his eyes reversed her opinion of his looks. Fringed by long, thick black lashes, his eyes were a deep velvety brown with bronze glints, shaped wide and long beneath straight, heavy brows. These astonishing eyes changed his face from merely pleasant to nearly beautiful. He reined in the mare directly in front of her, shifted not a breath in his saddle—and the horse suddenly reared back, gathered herself, then came down on forelegs with rear hooves lashing out. It was a warhorse’s move, precise and deadly, and the crowd burst into applause.

“Oh, well done!” Alasen cried along with the cheering audience.

“Do you think so?” a man’s deep voice said at her shoulder.

“Oh, yes,” she answered without turning, enthralled by the young man’s ride. “Just perfect! Do you know who he is, sir? He wears Meadowlord’s colors, but then every squire is still in his fostering lord’s colors.”

“His own are blue and brown, for Skybowl. His name is Riyan, and he’s my son.”

Alasen looked up then into a pleasant, smiling face. There was a family resemblance about the brow and nose, and she realized that with maturity the son would become nearly as distinguished as the father. But their eyes were very different; the ones gazing down at her now were gray, shaded by dark lashes and a shock of tousled brown hair showing threads of silver. “You must be Lord Ostvel,” she said, returning his smile.

“The same. I thank you for the compliment on my son’s behalf. A father’s pride is one thing, but to hear a young lady’s praise confirm it. . . .” He gave a self-mocking shrug. “And you must be Princess Alasen of Kierst.”

“How could you know that? I purposely wore my oldest and plainest dress today, and I’m trying to blend in with the rest of the crowd!” She laughed up at him.

“I doubt you could ever succeed in that, my lady. As for knowing who you are—I met your mother once and you’ve the look of her. But the green eyes confirm it. They’re precisely the same color as Prince Davvi’s, and the same shape as Princess Sioned’s.”

“Really? I know I look like my mother, mostly, but do you think I resemble the High Princess even a little?”

“You sound as if you’d like to. But I’d say that looking like yourself is quite enough. You’ve certainly impressed that young man over there.” He nodded to where Lord Chaynal stood with a youth whose blue eyes were indeed studying her most intently. “Obviously he finds it more rewarding to look at you than to watch his brother ride.”

“His brother?” Alasen repeated blankly.

“Sorin. Your young admirer is Andry of Radzyn, and lately of Goddess Keep.”

She forgot the dignity of her twenty-two winters and stared. So that was Sorin’s twin! “They’re not very much alike, are they, my lord?”

“It used to be almost impossible to tell them apart. But they’ve grown up quite differently in the last years.” His voice was suddenly expressionless and she glanced up at him, startled. He noted the look and smiled once more. “But I’m keeping you from watching the rest of the show. They’re about to ride toward each other at a full gallop—Sorin’s idea, the madman. I just hope Riyan doesn’t disgrace himself by falling off.”

“I doubt he’s done that since the first time you put him on a pony,” she chuckled.

The line of riders formed again, then broke in two at the middle. They cantered to opposite ends of the meadow, wheeled in place, and at a signal from Sorin thundered toward each other with a speed that promised to annihilate them all. Yet somehow each found a space to gallop through, and in the next instant they had all lined up again to enjoy the crowd’s applause.

“Excellent,” Lord Ostvel murmured. “But don’t tell my son I said so,” he added.

“But he deserves to be told, my lord. Next to Sorin, he’s the best rider here.”

Laughter rumbled up from deep in his chest. “No more syrup for my paternal pride, my lady! Tell me, what do you think of the mare he’s riding?”

“As a warhorse, perfection. As a casual mount—” She shook her head. “That mare would fret herself to skin and bones if she wasn’t given anything more than a good gallop every other day.”

“I agree. She’s too high-strung. I need to gift Riyan with a proper knight’s mount, though. Which horse would you favor?”

She hesitated, then had to answer honestly. “Sorin’s gray, without a doubt.”

Lord Ostvel gave a long sigh. “I was afraid we’d agree on that, too. Chay’s going to demand half a year’s income for that horse—and he won’t knock the price down for the sake of friendship, either!”

The crowd was breaking up now, heading to the stands to watch the first race, and Alasen was jostled against the rails. Ostvel took her arm to steady her. “I’m all right,” she assured him. “But I think I’ll wait here until the crowd thins a little.”

“No need. I’ll escort you, if you’ll permit. Would you like to go congratulate Sorin?”

“Yes, please!”

Together they made their way to where Lord Chaynal stood with his sons and Riyan. Ostvel ruffled his own son’s dark hair as if he was still ten years old instead of two days away from formal knighthood; Riyan bore with it, grinning, and gold sparkled with the bronze in his eyes. Alasen was introduced and noted that Riyan was not another such as Sorin—though just as accomplished at the arts of being a knight, he also possessed social skills enough not to blush in the presence of a pretty girl. He gave her a bow and a smile, and again she saw his father in him.

Sorin then claimed her attention with a demand to be told how wonderful he was. Alasen laughed at him. “You stayed in your saddle, which is more than I expected!”

He turned an aggrieved face to his father. “Allow me to thank you, my lord, for never giving us any sisters! Andry, this is the girl I told you about, who’s made my life misery for nearly eight years. Princess Alasen of Kierst, my brother, Lord Andry.”

Alasen was in for a surprise. She received a very elegant bow, a very direct stare, and a very composed pronouncement of her name and title in a voice that made
her
complexion change color, not his.

“So you’re Volog’s youngest,” said Lord Chaynal. “Happy man, to have such a treasure in his castle. I even hold you excused from never having taught this hopeless whelp of mine any manners during his time at New Raetia.”

She met his grin with sparkling eyes and her lips tucked into a rueful line. “Indeed, my lord, I am sorry. We tried everything, but to no avail.” His eyes were gray like Lord Ostvel’s, but like sunlight on moonstones where the other man’s were silver in shadow.

“She means,” Sorin said, “that she used to throw books at me in the schoolroom. Don’t try to deny it, Allie, you know you did. I still have the scars.”