Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll (66 page)

W
ith the tension over Masul that morning and the nervous speculation about what Andrade would do that evening, nearly everyone had forgotten that the afternoon would bring ceremonies making knights of fifteen young squires. On a knoll overlooking the encampments there gathered the families and sponsors of the young men, but none of the usual gaiety attended on the scene.

“It’s a poor celebration of knighthood for them,” Maarken said to Andry, shaking his head. “I looked forward to this day my whole life.”

Andry, who had not, nevertheless sympathized with Sorin, Riyan, and the others who had worked so hard and so long, only to have the supreme moment of their young lives blighted by the political troubles of their elders.

“It’ll be special for them,” he said, trying to sound confident, “no matter what else is going on. I remember you looked as if you and Lleyn were the only two people in the world at that moment. They’ll feel that way, too—if only for that little bit of time. That’s what’s important.”

“I suppose so.”

Andry hesitated, took a quick look around at the others standing in little groups nearby, and decided he would not be overheard. “Maarken, have you talked to Hollis?”

Maarken stiffened. “No. Not today.”

“I don’t know why she’s acting this way,” Andry continued unwisely. “All during the time we were working on the scrolls, she talked about you and asked questions about Radzyn and the Desert, and now she won’t even—”

“Do you know what you’re talking about?” Maarken asked in a deadly soft voice.

Andry swallowed hard. “No,” he whispered. “I guess not. But, Maarken, it’s just that I—”

Frosty gray eyes the exact color of their father’s glared down the finger’s width that separated them in height. But after a moment Maarken sighed and gripped Andry’s shoulder briefly. “Sorry. I just can’t talk about it now, all right?”

Nodding, relieved that his beloved eldest brother had not seen fit to provide him with a broken jaw in payment for his prying, Andry turned his attention to the crest of the knoll, where the squires had assembled in strict order of precedence.

Fifteen of them stood in the afternoon sunshine, straight and proud in their sponsoring lords’ colors, the hues of their fathers’ holdings seen in the dyed leather of their belts. This made for sometimes garish results—Lord Sabriam’s younger brother, Bosaia, for instance. The yellow and orange of their city of Einar competed to eye-popping effect with the already violent combination of pink and crimson in the tunic of Lower Pyrme, where he had been fostered. Riyan, in Clutha’s light green with Skybowl’s blue and brown in his belt, was luckier than most. And Sorin’s tunic of Kierstian scarlet was brilliantly set off by Radzyn’s red and white circling his waist.

There were no sons of princes being knighted today but, as a son of the most important lord in the Desert and grandson of a prince, Sorin naturally was first. Andry and Maarken stood with their parents, watching proudly as Volog slipped the golden buckle onto Sorin’s belt and Alasen gave him one of the small loaves of bread baked especially for the occasion, together with a small silver vial of salt. Tradition also asserted that knights were given other tokens according to which court had fostered them. Kierst always presented the bread on a finely glazed plate, crafted by a master at New Raetia itself and rimmed in gold from the island’s own mines.

Andry felt his heart twist suddenly. It might have been himself standing there, blushing a little as Alasen smiled on him. It
could
have been him—except that the ambition for knighthood had never burned inside him. All his fire was reserved for
faradhi
things. And it would be many long years before he had attained the status in his chosen realm that Sorin had achieved today in his. He cast a furtive look at his rings, and once more mentally added those that would bring the number to nine and then ten.

Alasen and Volog led Sorin over to his family. In the interval before the next young man was called, they had a few moments for hugs and congratulations. Andry embraced his twin fondly, proud to bursting—and yet when Alasen laughed and gave Sorin what she termed “Your first
real
kiss from a lady,” he unaccountably turned away, unable to watch.

As the second squire was being made a knight, a quiet voice said at his shoulder, “It might have been you up there, you know.”

Andry looked up at his father, startled and embarrassed that somehow his thoughts had been guessed. And for an instant he was afraid that he had indeed deeply disappointed this man he revered and loved, who had never truly understood his dreams. But Chay was neither dissatisfied with him nor angry. The gray eyes were loving, and the hand resting on his back was warm with affection.

Still, Andry could not help murmuring, “You’re not sorry, are you?”

“I would be if
you
were. But if you’re content, then so am I.” He gave a soft chuckle. “Listen to how mellow I’ve become in my old age!” Then, seriously, he added, “Andry, I’m proud of
all
my sons.”

He bit his lip and nodded blindly.

Younger sons and younger brothers came forward with their sponsors, and received gold buckles, bread, salt, and each
athri
’s special gift. From nearby, Rohan and Sioned and Pol presided over the whole, and the honor of being knighted in front of the High Prince, High Princess, and their heir was not lost on any of the young men so elevated. After making their bows to their lords, they turned, marched a few paces to the left, and bowed even lower to the royal trio. Smiles greeted each new-made knight: approving from Rohan, kind from Sioned, and a trifle envious from Pol.

Riyan made his appearance toward the end of the ceremonies, being the son of a relatively minor
athri
without important blood-bond to any royal house. He accepted the usual gifts from Prince Clutha and his eldest daughter, a statuesque lady of great dignity and a sudden mischievous smile as she gave the young man Meadowlord’s traditional gift: a flask carved from the horn of a stag. The proportions of the animal who had contributed the horn must have been truly awesome, for the flask held enough wine to make a man blind drunk.

“I hope you won’t mind if I share this first one with you in celebration,” said Princess Gennadi. Riyan returned her grin as she undid the stopper, bright with silver and a circle of tiny sapphires, and expertly tilted the flask to spray a stream of crimson wine into her throat. Righting the horn, she gave it to Riyan. He offered it first to Clutha—who was shaking so hard with repressed laughter that he nearly missed his open jaws—and then took a large mouthful for himself.

“My lord, my lady,” Riyan said to them as he recorked the flask and hung it around his shoulder by its silver chain, “I wish for you what you’ve so graciously made sure of for me—may you never, ever thirst!”

Everyone was more than glad of the chance to laugh. Clay slapped Ostvel on the back and announced, “That boy’s got style!” as Riyan made his bow to Clutha and Gennadi. Rohan, Sioned, and Pol were grinning broadly as the young knight approached and bent low before them.

Ostvel, rigid with nerves during Riyan’s presentation, nearly wilted with relief as his son walked over to him. But he quickly recovered himself, turned to Chay, and said slyly, “Now, my old friend—are you seriously willing to see anyone with
less
style riding that beautiful dapple-gray mare?”

Chay might have been proof against Ostvel’s blandishment, but when Princess Alasen turned the full force of her eyes on him and pleaded Riyan’s case, he was lost. His wife saw it, and laughed.

“Give in, you old miser,” she scolded, nudging him with an un-gentle elbow. “You’d never be happy if anybody else rode Dalziel and you know it.”

Chay groaned. But by the time Riyan joined them to collect congratulations and embraces, he was resigned. “Well, it looks as if you’ll be riding off with my prize mare this year, thanks to your father—and a certain pair of big green eyes I should know by now how to resist,” he added in Alasen’s direction. “Sioned has a look just like that!”

Again Andry felt a delicate, exquisite twisting in his chest when Riyan bent over Alasen’s wrist to thank her. When she smiled, the ache was worse. And when she glanced laughingly at him, those green eyes alight, he suddenly knew what was wrong with him.

To hide it, he looked away. It was the worst possible thing he could have done. Alasen was no fool. Only three winters his senior, she had lived at a great palace all her life and not in the relative isolation of Goddess Keep for the last six years, as he had. She had seen his like before, known the adoration of countless young men ever since she could remember. She knew exactly what he felt. And she would laugh, amused to have collected yet another heart, and pity him for giving that heart where it could find no home. Doubtless his feelings, so vital to him, would be to her just the worship of one more callow fool too young to know what love was. Bitterly humiliated, he compelled himself to have the courage to look her in the face.

What he saw stunned him.

Her eyes were clear and soft and gentle. She was not laughing at him. She did not pity him. She knew what he felt for her. But she did not smile in kind rejection.

Alasen might not love him, but she was shyly pleased that he loved her.

Andry’s world turned to hazy colors, all unfocused around the green of her eyes, the ivory of her skin, the sweet rose of her mouth, the rich gold-lit brown of her hair. Sunlight spun through him seemingly of its own accord, and through it he felt her other colors: glowing moonstone, bright ruby, deep onyx. She gasped softly, feeling the woven light lace its brilliance around and through her. All the colors of late summer swirled around them, sweet and shining in a dance fitted to the music of birds and wind and the coursing of blood in their veins. Andry realized it was Alasen’s first experience of her
faradhi
gifts, and in soaring joy knew it was something only he could show her.

Delight flushed her cheeks as she gazed up into his eyes, and they were the only people in the world for many shared heartbeats. But all at once there
was
a world again, its demand harsh and frightening as through their enchantment they both heard the name
Masul.

He strode up to the place where all the other squires had been knighted. But his sponsor was not Kiele’s husband Lord Lyell. At his side was Miyon of Cunaxa, whose bright orange tunic Masul wore. The outrageous presumption of the man, the sheer audacity of it, spread shocked silence over the knoll like a cloud. Andry’s gentle glowing haze of color became so sharply focused that he winced. He saw with painful clarity the white fury of Rohan’s face, the crimson of Chay’s as he fought down terrible rage.

The formula rang out mockingly as Masul knelt before Miyon and the latter said, “I have examined this candidate in all aspects, and found him worthy of my sponsorship for knighthood. Therefore I charge him to serve the Goddess and the truth, to live hon orably and courageously in rich times and in bitter. In token of both I give him bread and salt, and in token of his new and honored state I give this golden buckle.”

Loaf and vial were presented, and Masul’s violet belt decorated with a large hollow circle of gold, pierced with gold. Then, grinning slyly, Miyon called one of his squires forward and a startled gasp went through the audience, for with the presentation of the final gift it was remembered that Cunaxa, home of the finest metalsmiths on the continent, traditionally gave as its special gift a sword.

Newly girded with a magnificent blade in a gorgeous scabbard set like the hilt with amethysts, Masul sauntered a few paces and made his brief, mocking bow to Rohan, Sioned, and Pol. The first nodded curtly, rigid with his effort at control. Sioned, equally furious, acknowledged Masul’s salute with a grim stare. But the boy, for all his youth and inexperience, was the one who saved the disaster for them.

With absolute, proud calm, and in a clear voice that carried across the grassy knoll, he said, “Something mars your appearance.”

Masul straightened up and stared. “What are you talking about?”

“Your belt.” The corners of Pol’s mouth lifted in a tiny, cold smile. “Violet with orange—what a painful mistake in color, especially to a Sunrunner’s eyes. And I am certain it
was
a mistake.”

“Violet is the color of Princemarch,” Masul replied with scant courtesy to this stripling prince he could have broken in half.

“And Princemarch,” Pol informed him pleasantly, “is mine. Be so good as to rectify the mistake, and remove the belt.”

If he refused, there would be pandemonium. If he obeyed—

Miyon hastened forward and whispered something urgent in Masul’s ear. The pretender’s face turned several sequentially darker shades of red. Miyon said something else, and backed away. And Masul, salvaging what he could of a battle he had lost, undid the golden buckle so recently clasped around his waist.

“As you wish—my lord,” he added insultingly. The sight of him juggling loaf, salt, and sword while trying to undo the buckle from the leather brought grins and even a few open titters of laughter. But Pol waited with perfect aplomb while Masul struggled to maintain his dignity and comply with a request he dared not refuse. Pol was in the right. Princemarch still belonged to him. Defiance now would be foolhardy.

The long strip of violet-dyed leather was freed. Masul held it in one fist, as if strangling a poisonous snake. Pol was wise enough not to extend his hands for it, and thus Masul did not have the satisfaction of dropping it into the dirt for Pol to retrieve. Tallain appeared silently at Masul’s side, and before the pretender could even consider throwing it to the ground, took the belt and coiled it nearly as he returned to his post near the royal trio.

Pol nodded graciously. “Now you look much better, and your tunic is much easier on the eyes. You have our permission to withdraw.”