Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll (58 page)

At the Syrene enclave, Tilal’s pennant of green and black fluttered above his small turquoise tent. A squire younger than Pol bowed nearly to the ground on seeing him. Tilal, emerging from the tent with a large leather purse jingling in his hand, smiled a greeting and waved the squire away.

“I think Aunt Sioned is glad to give you something to do today,” he confided. “She’s not all that pleased with you, but I don’t think there’ll be any punishment. All her time and imagination are busy elsewhere.” He tied the purse to his belt, checked his sword, and said, “All right then, we’re off. If we hurry we can get to the Fair before the crowds.”

“But I’ll bet the girls still follow you, all the way over there,” Pol teased. “I was watching at breakfast this morning, before you and Kostas started talking with Chale.”

“Oh, most of the girls will be staying here today, planning their finery for the next few days. I’ll let the other men have a chance,” Tilal replied, a breezy note in his voice, his eyes self-mocking. “There’s a Cunaxan vendor Kostas told me about yesterday who makes the most amazing swords. I want to get one for my father.”

“Do you think Sorin and Riyan would like something from him?” Pol asked as they walked. “I want to get them each a present, and I brought a lot of money. Oh, and I have to stop by a certain silk merchant’s, and I need the best Fironese crystaller.”

The Cunaxan proved to be a true artist. The sword Tilal purchased from him was a marvel of gleaming steel decorated with engravings of apple trees heavy with fruit. He etched Syr’s emblem while the cousins watched. The grip was adjusted to Tilal’s specifications to make it comfortable for his father, and while Pol selected two fine knives for Sorin and Riyan in celebration of their knighthood, Tilal produced a handful of small garnets to be set in spaces left by the crafter for the purpose.

The work took a long time, but the result was magnificent. Noon sun slid down the long blade and smoldered in the dark jewels, found its echo in the gold-chased hilt. Tilal wrapped the sword carefully in a length of softest wool, paid for his prize, and sighed happily as they walked away from the booth.

“Were those the garnets you won in the race?” Pol asked. “Aren’t you going to have the rest of them set into a necklet?”

“Perhaps.”

The boy eyed his cousin sidelong. “Oh. I see. No lady has struck your fancy to make a bridal necklet for.”

To his astonishment, Tilal’s jaw hardened and his eyes were fierce as he said, “Prince you may be, but that’s none of your business.”

Pol nearly stumbled over his own feet. It seemed to be his day for provoking furious looks from family and friends; he kept his mouth shut as they searched the aisles of booths and finally stopped before a collection of crystal that seemed blown of soap bubbles, all soft pink and green and blue iridescence in the sun.

Tilal relented, becoming once again the cousin and good companion. “Who’s this for? Your mother?”

“No. Another lady.” Pol laughed as Tilal’s black brows shot up in surprise. “As everybody keeps telling me, I’m too young for
that
yet! I broke a glass belonging to an innkeeper’s wife in Dorval, and I need to replace it.” He pointed to a fragile goblet in the shape of a fantastical yellow flower, footed in green leaves and rising on a stem where tiny crystal pearls imitated dewdrops. “I think I’d like that one, please.”

“A wise and brilliant choice, exalted lord,” the merchant enthused.

“How’re you going to get it all the way back to Graypearl in one piece?” Tilal asked.

The merchant snorted. “I’ll wrap it so fine and safe that the worst winter storms couldn’t even make it tremble. A moment only, most gracious lord.”

When the wooden case was readied—twice the size of the goblet and packed with lamb’s wool—Pol asked that it be sent on to his father’s pavilion. On realizing who his customer was, the merchant blanched, abased himself, and with reckless speed snatched up another goblet and presented it to Pol. This one was a gorgeous creation of purple glass shading into blue at the rim, darkening down the stem to a foot of opaque black. The whole of it was supported by three thin wires of gold that swirled up and around to circle the rim.

“My prince,” the merchant said humbly, and bowed again.

Pol blushed, and wondered if his complexion would learn to behave itself with age. “I really can’t—”

“Please,” the Fironese said. “I speak for my guild and for all my people when I say that we eagerly anticipate coming under the benevolent governance of so noble and powerful a prince.”

“That’s very kind of you, but—”

“Please, your grace.” The man’s dark eyes met his, and Pol remembered Lady Eneida’s fears of being invaded by Miyon of Cunaxa. It seemed the Fironese really wanted him as their prince. He’d have to tell his father that.

“I accept, with great thanks,” Pol said. The goblet was wrapped and added to the first one, to be sent along with it to the High Prince’s pavilion.

“Well, well,” Tilal murmured as they left the Fironese.

“I can’t help it,” Pol replied, shrugging. “They’re determined to give us their princedom. Better us than the Cunaxans.” He stopped abruptly, aware that Tilal had a claim to Firon, too.

His cousin was grinning at him. “Better you than me!”

“Really? You don’t want it?”

Tilal gave an exaggerated shudder. “Me, up there in all that snow? Do you want to kill me off?”

“It doesn’t snow
all
the time,” Pol reminded him.

“It snows enough. I don’t want Firon, Pol. I’ve told my father so. It’s too far from—from everything.”

What Firon was too far from had been amended, but Pol didn’t press for a correction. “Well, if that’s how you feel about it . . . but I don’t know too many men who’d turn up their noses at a princedom. Come on, let’s get something to eat and then visit the hawks. Mother says she bought me one, and I haven’t had the chance to see him yet.”

They selected various snacks and ate as they walked up the hill to the wood. Pol wanted to explore—out from under the stern eyes of Maarken and Ostvel—and so before turning for the caged and hooded birds, the pair slid through the trees and underbrush. Tilal made a game of it, teaching Pol some of the tricks necessary for hunting in a forest, which this son of the open Desert had yet to learn.

“You’ll have to come to River Run some autumn and I’ll show you what
real
hunting is,” Tilal chuckled after Pol had stepped on yet another twig, its loud crack startling him.

“My lord Chadric lets us come with him sometimes, but it’s always on horseback, hunting deer. Show me again how to walk without any noise.”

Tilal obliged, and Pol imitated him with growing skill. Each foot was placed softly, carefully; every muscle in the body controlled; all senses aware of scents and textures and breezes and sounds—

“Come any closer and I’ll scream,” a woman said quietly.

Tilal grabbed Pol’s elbow and they both froze. The voice had come from beyond a stand of berry brambles, its owner invisible and unknown to Pol—but the tense anger on Tilal’s face revealed that he knew the woman’s identity.

“I mean it, Kostas! I’ll scream and bring everyone running to witness this shameful—”

“No, Gemma. You won’t scream. Above the noise of the hawks and the noise of the Fair, who would hear you? Besides, I mean you no harm, my lady. Only come to me, be with me—”

“No!”

Tilal’s fingers put bruises onto Pol’s arm to stop the boy’s intended rush into the woods. “No,” he breathed. “Wait.”

“But he’s going to—”

“Not even Kostas would do that.”

Pol considered. Rape was a heinous crime. If found guilty, the accused man was deprived of the physical equipment that would enable him to repeat the offense. If the woman made a false accusation, however, her dowry was forfeit to the man and her overlord had to pay a hefty fine for her lies. Kostas and Gemma both knew the law; neither would be so foolish as to risk rape or an accusation of it.

Gemma was stating this very fact to Kostas as Pol and Tilal listened. “I’m sure you eventually want children! But be assured, my lord, that they will not come from me!”

“If you accuse me I can prove my innocence—and then you would lose Ossetia, for that’s your dowry. I would be Prince of Ossetia with or without you, my lady. I would much rather it be with you at my side, in honor.”

“Honor!” she spat. “And how would you prove your innocence? What makes you think my uncle Prince Chale would even let it come to trial? I have only to accuse you, and he’ll kill you!”

“With
my
uncle High Prince Rohan standing by? I think not, my lady. There are four witnesses of impeccable repute ready to swear I was with them all day. Come, Gemma,” he said, his voice softening. “Stop this nonsense. We have always been intended for each other, even before you became Chale’s heir. Accept me, and I’ll make you happy, I swear it, and be a good and wise prince for both our lands—”

By now Tilal’s hand was white around the wrapped sword. He had heard enough. He let go of Pol and slipped through an opening in the bushes. Pol followed, trembling with fury, and stood watching as the brothers confronted each other in the little glade.

“Four witnesses more impeccable than your own brother and the High Prince’s son?” His voice was a swordthrust into Kostas’ spine; the elder brother whirled, rage blazing in his eyes. “How dare you?” Tilal hissed. “Damn you, Kostas, leave her alone and before I forget you’re my brother!”

Kostas’ answer was to unsheathe his sword. Tilal tore at the wrappings of the weapon he’d bought for his father. Gemma had the good sense not to scream; instead she flung herself between the pair, a courageous move that nonetheless irritated Pol. He went forward, grasped her arm, and hauled her out of the way.

“They won’t fight, my lady,” he told her in a clear voice meant not so much for her as for his cousins. “If they do, everyone in all the princedoms will hear about this from
me.
Put up your weapon, Kostas.
Now.
Tilal, if you untie one more of those knots—”

Enraged, the brothers turned on him with snarls. Pol found that his shaking had retreated deep within his body. His hands and voice were steady, his knees secure. He felt at once powerful and vulnerable: his will and personality battered strongly at their anger, but he was vulnerable to his own strange inner trembling, a warning he could not understand. Did his father ever feel this way? Was this what it was to experience the power of being High Prince?

Power he had, and it was exhilarating as well as frightening. Kostas slammed his sword back into its sheath. Tilal’s fighting stance relaxed a fraction. Gemma was the one trembling now, her breath coming in little gasps.

“Do you wish to charge this man with rape, my lady?” Pol asked coldly.

She shook her head, bright auburn hair straggling down her neck and cheeks. “No, your grace. I do not.”

“A wise decision, my lady.” He eased his grip on her and looked at the brothers. There was nothing more pathetic than two otherwise rational men fighting over the same woman. “You both want her.”

Tilal glared at him, then turned away. Kostas looked as if he would draw his sword again and use it on Pol. The heady feeling of pitting his will against theirs grew—along with an equivalent fear of what might happen if he failed to dominate them.

“Did either of you ask Gemma what
she
wants? Gentle Goddess, what a pair!” Pol snorted. “My lady, do you want either of these fools?”

She freed her hand from his and pushed the hair from her face, pulling herself straight and proud. “The truth, your grace? Yes. And it is not Kostas I want for my husband.”

“And Prince of Ossetia,” Pol reminded her. “Tilal, are you listening? Face me. Ask her.”

“No!” Kostas shouted. “I won’t allow it!”

Pol sighed. “Tilal, I’m waiting.”

The young Lord of River Run swung around, still furious. “I hope you’re enjoying this, your grace!” he said viciously. “Yes, I want her! I’ve always loved her—but I wouldn’t marry her now if—”

Why were supposedly grown men so colossally stupid? “You’re about to lose your chance, Tilal. Ask her now or not at all.”

Kostas gave an inarticulate bellow and lunged for his brother. The pair rolled on the ground, not even remembering swords and knives, intent on the more direct satisfaction of pummeling fists, broken bones, and smashed jaws.

Pol watched for a moment, thoroughly disgusted. They probably would not do each other any serious damage, being evenly matched physically and too furious to be really effective in their battle. But as Kostas got in a decent kick, Gemma cried out Tilal’s name, clinging to Pol’s shoulder.

He shook her off and concentrated, calling Fire. Not much—just enough to get their attention. A respectable gout of red-gold flames rose from a stone to the height of the nearest bush. Gemma gave a little choked scream. Tilal and Kostas reacted more violently, breaking apart from each other and scrambling to their feet. The tense knot of power inside Pol uncurled, sending tendrils of excitement through him—still countered by the apprehension. He was beginning to cherish that chill little warning, and to understand it as an essential part of wielding power.

“Now,” he said softly, in the way he thought his father would, “shall we behave like civilized people? Good. Tilal, the princess and I are still waiting.”

 

After Tobin’s breakfast party—which had left Sioned satisfied with Chiana’s progress in claiming Miyon’s attention, if not with her son’s little performance—she returned to her pavilion intending to spend a few quiet moments alone in her private quarters. But Andrade and Pandsala had arrived before her.

“Please don’t start,” Sioned warned as she sank into a deep chair. “Rohan didn’t sleep very well last night, which means I didn’t either. And I’m trying to think up a really good excuse to avoid blistering Pol’s behind for him.”