Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll (74 page)

Sorin came forward then with the belt, gave it to Pol. He fastened its white length around his cousin’s waist, fingers nimble on the golden buckle given by Prince Lleyn. Then he accepted the sword from Tilal and presented it. As it was strapped on, he looked at Sorin and Riyan.

“Do you have what I gave you?” They understood at once, and handed Pol the knives he’d purchased for them at the Fair. He showed them to Maarken. “They’re only eating-knives,” he apologized, “not really suited for throwing. But Father always says that you should have at least one in reserve where your enemies won’t think to look for it. Father keeps his in his boots.”

“I know. I have a couple hidden—but these are quite welcome, believe me.” Maarken slipped the knives into his belt.

Sorin asked, “Will you want the helm?”

“No. Nor leather coif, either. I plan to watch this bastard’s face crumple, and hoods and helms only get in the way.” He grinned suddenly. “Besides, it’s damned hot out there.”

Suddenly they were all silent, unwilling to acknowledge that it was nearly noon and Masul would be waiting. Pol gazed long and hard at his cousin, wishing he had words to explain his feelings—wishing he knew what those feelings were. They tumbled in him so quickly that he didn’t know if fear or pride or love or hate or grim anticipation dominated. He touched Maarken’s wrist briefly, saw the gray eyes smile down at him.

“Stay safe, Maarken,” was all he could think of to mumble around a sudden lump in his throat.

“I will, my prince.”

An unexpected visitor came in then—unexpected only by Pol, and respectfully welcomed by all but him. He felt guilty for the distance he wanted to put between himself and Andry, yet the wariness was stronger than ever.

Andry didn’t seem to notice, however. He embraced his eldest brother and said, “Don’t take this as an insult, please—but you must end this quickly. I don’t want the stars shining on your battle. If these sorcerers could kill Lady Andrade on the starlight, they’d have no scruple in doing the same to you. Guard yourself, Maarken.”

“You can’t mean Masul has them on his side knowingly!” Riyan exclaimed.

“I don’t know what I mean,” Andry snapped. “I only know that this has to be done before nightfall. I don’t know enough about the Star Scroll yet to be able to counter whatever they might attempt.”

Maarken nodded slowly. “There are clouds enough to keep out the sunlight, Andry. And it’s not even noon yet! I wouldn’t be too concerned about the stars.”

“Well, I am,” his brother said in curt tones.

“Maarken knows what he’s doing,” Pol heard himself say.

Andry glanced at him. “He fights for my honor as well as yours.”

Pol nodded. “I think we’d better get there first, by the way. If Maarken’s late, Masul will only taunt him.” He made an effort at Maarken’s nonchalance, and shrugged. “If for no other reason, he needs killing for the foulness of his mouth.”

Approval shone briefly in Maarken’s eyes. He clapped Pol on one shoulder and said, “Let’s see an end to this, then. I’m stifling in here, and—”

Pol saw his face freeze, and turned. Hollis stood in the doorway, her long tawny hair wild around her shoulders, falling in tangled strands to her hips. Blue eyes, huge and dark in her pallid face, saw only Maarken. Pol’s astonishment and devouring curiosity yielded to tact for the first time in his life; he collected the others with a gesture and led the way from the tent.

Whatever Pol had hoped they might say to each other to mend the breach that had been only too obvious since her arrival at Waes, Maarken’s expression as he joined them plainly signaled that such things had not been said. Pol was suddenly furious with Hollis. Anyone with any sense knew that no man or woman should be sent into battle with the memory of fear-filled eyes. He’d watched and learned from the leavetakings at Stronghold this spring; even though no war was anticipated, a season spent on the Cunaxan border was always dangerous. Especially had he noticed the manner in which Lady Feylin had bid farewell to Lord Walvis. She had embraced and kissed him, then berated him for polishing his damned harness so bright that it pained her eyes to look at him. They had parted with teasing—much the same technique Tobin had employed a little while ago with her son. He’d seen men and women at Stronghold use the same cover for emotion as they said good-bye to warrior wives and husbands and lovers. Hollis would have to learn.

Andry was in the process of making things worse. “Maarken—she does love you, she’s just been ill this summer and—”

Pol fixed Andry with what he hoped was an adequate approximation of his father’s coldest look. Evidently it was more than adequate; the new Lord of Goddess Keep flushed like a schoolboy and looked away. But in the next instant the man who made Pol so uneasy had returned, and gave him a glance of equal iciness. They had met by
faradhi
means, they two, learned things about each other’s strengths that had not yet been fully analyzed. And Pol had the sudden, sick feeling that whereas he would never come to open battle with Andry, neither would they ever be completely at peace with each other. There was too much power on both sides.

Gentle Goddess, why power? he thought suddenly as they started walking to the High Prince’s pavilion where the rest of their family would be waiting. What did it gain? Roelstra had enjoyed setting princes against each other and reaping the spoils. Andrade had wanted to reorder the continent under Sunrunner rule. Pol’s father wanted to form a fabric of law as wide-ranging as the fabric of light the
faradh’im
had spun last night. But what did Andry want?

More to the point, what did Pol himself want?

Troublesome questions flew entirely out of his head as he met his parents and the others outside the huge tent. Urival stood stiff and straight, as one who feared that relaxing any muscle would mean collapse of his elaborate defensive structure against grief. Chay was just as straight-backed, but without tension. He moved easily to embrace his son, confidence and pride in every line of him.

“Pol.”

He started at the sound of his mother’s voice, tight and clipped, totally lacking its usual music. He went forward automatically and she held out a plain, thin silver circlet. Only then did he notice that both his parents were wearing narrow bands across their foreheads, coronets carved so that the gold seemed faceted like a jewel. He smoothed his hair and set the circlet in place, feeling its chill quickly warm at contact with his skin. Rare were the times he had worn this symbol of his rank; the last time had been his farewell banquet at Radzyn, just before leaving for Graypearl to become Lleyn’s squire. But today of all days he knew he had to remind everyone of his royal status—as if, standing beside his sternly regal parents, anyone would need reminding.

Rohan was inspecting Maarken’s battle harness, tugging at a leather fastening here, checking a steel buckle there. Pol stiffened slightly, then realized that it wasn’t that his father didn’t trust the young men who had armed Maarken; he only needed something to do.

Finally Rohan nodded satisfaction and stepped back. In the interim they had been joined by Davvi and Kostas, Volog, Alasen, and Ostvel. The latter led Maarken’s sleek and glossy stallion, caparisoned in Whitecliff colors. As if Ostvel were still chief steward of Stronghold and not an important lord in his own right, he bowed low to Rohan and said, “Your grace, all is in readiness.”

Rohan inclined his head once. To Maarken he said, “As it is forbidden to engage in such things within the precincts of the
Rialla,
we’ve found a field across the river. It’s perfectly flat, with no dips or hillocks to make things difficult. You’ll wait on horseback until you’re called, then ride up and make the usual salutes to me and Pol and Andry. Dismount then, and when Andry gives the signal, begin.” He paused, then said, “Goddess blessing, Maarken.”

As they started off, Andry tried to keep his gaze from Alasen, but could not. She wore a plain gown of pale gray, the color of a cloud come to earth. Her long hair spilled down her back in shining waves of gold-washed brown. The green eyes that were very like Sioned’s refused to look at him; but she often glanced through the veil of her lashes at Maarken where he walked beside Ostvel and the magnificent horse. Jealousy stirred in him, then vanished. What he had shared with her in the manner of
faradh’im
could not be ri valed by the sight of his warrior brother in all his brave finery. Andry had held the essence of her, shown her the joy of her gifts. He had restructured her bright glowing colors when she might have been shadow-lost. He had kept her safe.
Only let this be over soon,
he petitioned the Goddess,
and let me have the time to talk with her alone.
Alasen would understand and come with him to Goddess Keep, and he would teach her the wonders of being
faradhi.
They would be Lord and Lady together, with children to come after them, and—

He was brought up short by the sight of the crowds lining their way to the bridge. A strange rainbow fluttered below the gray sky as people waved ribbons of Desert blue and Radzyn red-and-white and Whitecliff red-and-orange—and Princemarch’s violet. He wondered bitterly if they flung that color aloft for Pol or for Masul.

Pandsala joined them at last, empty-eyed. She bent her head to Andry and her knees to Pol, and took a place at the very end of their small procession. Andry frowned slightly.
There
was one he would have to bring back into the discipline of Goddess Keep. Princess-Regent or not, she was a Sunrunner; Andrade had loathed her and chosen to ignore her existence as much as possible, but Andry was not so sanguine about allowing her free use of the rings she wore. Andrade had been lax with Sioned, too—but whereas Andry trusted his aunt implicitly, he did not trust Pandsala at all. It would be an interesting knife-edge to walk, he told himself: keeping hold of the duty and loyalty all Sunrunners owed to Goddess Keep when some of those Sunruners were ruling princes. He glanced sideways at Pol. Andrade had thought to have the training of him; now it would be Andry who taught him
faradhi
arts. Along with them, he would instill in Pol a spirit of cooperation with Goddess Keep. He did not delude himself that it would be easy. But Andrade had broken the rule that
faradh’im
did not become princes; she had hatched the egg, and now it was up to Andry to teach the hatchling where and how he would fly.

But first they had to rid themselves of this pretender who had dared murder a Sunrunner.

The stallion’s hooves rang loudly against the wooden bridge, echoing the thud of Maarken’s heart in his chest. He was disgusted with himself for the apprehension. He had a fine sword; knives enough to back him up in the unlikely circumstance that he lost the greater blade; strength, youth, and the right on his side. For his princes and for his fellow Sunrunners he would kill Masul. He spared a tiny smile for the perfect harmony that mocked his fears of having the two parts of himself come into conflict. If being
athri
and
faradhi
both was always this easy, he had nothing to worry about.

But the future was precisely what was on his mind: the day’s work before him and all the days that would follow. Would Hollis share them or not?

She had been frightened, distraught, wild-eyed when she’d come to him in his tent. Fever had swirled in her dark blue eyes, turning them nearly black with pinpoints of silver like lightning flashes through her soul. Folding her to his heart, elated that she was unresisting, he had felt the tremors shake her body that was almost frail in his arms.

“Beloved, beloved,” he had whispered, “don’t be afraid. I won’t come to any hurt, I swear it.”

“How can you know? How can either of us be sure?”

It was he who had drawn away from her, angry and desperately hurt. “If you have no faith in me—”

“I have every faith in you. It’s
them
I don’t trust.”

“Who? What are you talking about, Hollis?”

“The ones who want all
faradh’im
dead. The sorcerers. I’ve read about their ways, Maarken, I’ve helped translate the scrolls. Even if Masul doesn’t know about them or want their help, they’ll give it to him. He’s their challenge against us. Not only against the High Prince and his son, but all of us, all Sunrunners!”

Maarken told himself now that he should be reassured by her fear, for it meant she loved him still. Her pleas to be careful surely indicated a heart that was his alone. But just as suddenly her lips had turned cold under his comforting kisses, and she had extricated herself from his embrace with a terse reminder that the others were waiting for him.

As he had walked through the crowds to the bridge, he had seen her standing with the other Sunrunners. Hollis had been holding tight to Sejast’s hand.

His family went on ahead of him when they reached the field. Ostvel stayed behind, holding the stallion’s head while Maarken mounted. Gathering the reins, he looked down at his old friend’s face.

“Remember he’s larger than you are,” Ostvel said. “Test him out. If he’s slow with his size, use that against him. But if he’s quick and strong—” Ostvel suddenly snorted. “Listen to me, advising you as if you hadn’t been in your first battle at the age of eleven! And as if someone like me knew anything about the arts of war!”

Maarken smiled. “You know more than most, even if you never use it. I remember my lessons at your hands, before I went to Graypearl. You and Maeta used to drill me in swordplay until—” He broke off, wincing at her name.

“She’d be so proud of you right now,” Ostvel told him. “She always was.”

He nodded wordlessly.

“I’d better go take my place with the others.”

“Don’t worry, Ostvel. A quick victory for me, a slow death for him. I promised.”

“To hell with your promise! Kill him however you can, as soon as you can.” He hesitated. “I’ll keep an eye on your lady for you.”