Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll (9 page)

Whatever Andrade wanted, she would get her way. She always did. She had married off her sister to Prince Zehava in the hope of a male heir with
faradhi
gifts. Instead, Maarken’s mother had been the one with potential. Andrade had then put forth Sioned as Rohan’s bride, and this time the union had borne fruit in a son who would be both
faradhi
and High Prince. She had bred them all to each other like prize studs and mares. Maarken wondered whether she already had a girl in mind for Pol, despite his youth. She would not object to his own mating with a Sunrunner, guaranteeing the next generation’s gifts. But he also knew that his great-aunt’s fine, elegant fingers would close around his life if he was not careful. There were intimations that this was the source of the coolness between her and Sioned. Andrade had used her and Rohan to get her Sunrunner prince, and they resented it. Moreover, since Pol’s birth Sioned had worn only her husband’s emerald ring, not the seven others she had earned as a
faradhi—
visible reminder that she was no longer ruled by Andrade and Goddess Keep. And that was precisely what made other princes nervous.

Not that they would have been comforted by the idea that Andrade ruled through Rohan and Sioned. It was the notion of the two kinds of power merging in
any
combination that bothered them. And there were others besides Pol: Maarken himself, his younger brother Andry, Riyan of Skybowl. The other highborns feared the power of a lord who could summon Fire on command, watch any court on a weave of light, use eyes and ears not his own to observe wherever he chose. There were ethics involved in being a Sunrunner: the strict prohibition against using the gifts to kill, the equally strict injunction that the good of one land should not be sought at the expense of another. Yet what had Andrade expected when she created rulers who possessed both kinds of power?

It was a thin and difficult line to walk. Maarken had not yet been faced with a crisis of choice, but he knew that one day he would be. From the sometimes haunted look in Sioned’s eyes, she had already done so—and whatever the outcome, it had scarred her. He could not talk to his parents about this kind of thing; despite her three rings, his mother would not understand. Though influential in her own right and as Lady of Radzyn, Tobin did not
think
the way Sunrunners did. She had never been formally trained at Goddess Keep. But there was Sioned, and Maarken relaxed a little at the prospect of talking all this out with her. She had been the first to wield both kinds of power. She would have the same fears for her son as Maarken felt stirring for himself and his unborn children.

He turned his stallion before he reached the gates of Whitecliff, not yet ready to enter it as its future master. A word to his father about the possibility of refurbishing its interior in anticipation of his marriage would clue his parents that he was at last thinking seriously about taking a wife. But he would wait, talk with Sioned, and at Waes allow everyone to see Hollis’ merits for themselves before he said anything.

He would ride through the gates of Whitecliff with her at his side, or with no one.

T
he High Prince lazed late abed, finishing off a breakfast of fresh fruit and flaky rolls washed down by watered wine. A pile of parchments was at his elbow, the top one sporting a smear of apple butter. Usually Rohan even worked through his meals, but this morning he ignored duty in favor of the fun of watching his wife give in to nerves.

Her turquoise silk bedgown billowed around her as she paced. Three times she had braided and unbraided her long firegold hair, dissatisfied by every effort. With each sharp movement of her fingers, her emerald flashed in the sunlight. A selection of gowns was heaped on her lounge chair, but she had not even begun trying them on, occupied for the moment with doing something about her hair. Her muttered curses and the occasional hiss of sheer annoyance amused her husband greatly.

At last he said, “You never took so much trouble dressing for
me.
”

Sioned scowled at him. “Sons are more observant than husbands—especially when the son has been gone for three years!”

“May a mere husband make a suggestion? Why don’t you just look the way you always look? Pol will be expecting to see his mother, not the High Princess in all her silks and jewels.”

“Do you think so?” she asked forlornly, and blushed when he laughed at her. “Oh, stop it! I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help thinking how much he must have changed.”

“Taller, with better manners and an increased sense of his own position,” Rohan enumerated. “I was the same way as a squire. But he’ll be the same in all the ways that count—and he’ll find you every bit as lovely as he remembers.” He grinned and brushed off his hands. “Trust me.”

“You’ve gotten crumbs all over the bed again.”

“I’m persuaded that Stronghold boasts a sufficiency of sheets, and servants to change them. Now, come over here and let me fix your hair, you madwoman.”

She sat on the bed with her back to him, and he deftly wove her hair into a single braid. “You’ve hardly got any gray at all,” he said as he worked.

“When I find any, I pluck them out.”

“If I did the same, I’d be going bald. Give me the pins and hold still.” He wrapped the braid into a smooth roll and kissed the nape of her neck before securing the knot with plain silver hairpins. “There. Go take a look.”

She went to the dressing table mirror and nodded. “If you ever get tired of being a prince, I’ll hire you on as my maid. This isn’t half bad. And as for going gray—all you’re doing is turning silvery instead of golden. I didn’t know you were so vain.”

He grinned. “I only say things like that so you can be a good, dutiful wife and compliment me.” Throwing the sheet over the parchments, he got to his feet and stretched. Running his fingers back through his hair, he yawned widely and stretched again—not
quite
preening under her gaze.

“Your good, dutiful wife begs to remind you we have work to do this morning,” Sioned told him.

“We do?” He looked over his shoulder at the bed. “I remember some reports, but they seem to have vanished.”

She chuckled. “Has anyone ever told you you’re impossible?”

“Yes. You. Constantly.” He approached and untied the belt of her robe. “Get dressed. The hatchling will be here before we know it.”

But the party from Radzyn was late. Rohan and Sioned waited in the Great Hall and Sioned resumed her pacing, boot heels clicking on the blue and green tiled floor. Rohan sprawled in a window embrasure near the squires’ table and watched her, vastly entertained by her impatience. He, too, was anxious to see his son, but some perversity of his temperament decreed that the more she fidgeted, the more he relaxed.

A servant finally arrived with the news that the young master’s party had been spotted from the Flametower, and Sioned flung a guilty look at Rohan. Her expression saved him the trouble of asking who had posted a lookout way up there. She smoothed her hair and straightened her clothes, taking in a deep breath before walking through the huge carved doors held open for the High Prince and High Princess. Rohan surveyed his wife with a smile, thinking that lovely as she could be in full dress and his emeralds, nothing suited her so well as riding clothes cut to emphasize her slim, long-legged figure. Well, he amended, either riding clothes or nothing at all except the masses of her unbound hair.

They stood together on the top step of the porch, Sioned rigid with nerves. Rohan noted the growing excitement among their people gathered in the courtyard below. The grooms were still arguing over who would have the honor of holding Pol’s reins as he dismounted; the cooks muttered about which of them had remembered his favorite foods, a conflict Rohan had thought settled days ago. Stronghold’s guard lined up in strict formation, their commander, Maeta, brushing imaginary dirt from spotless blue tunics and gleaming half-harness. All this for one boy, Rohan marveled, conveniently forgetting that he had received just the same welcome home from his training at Remagev. He heard the shouted query from the gatehouse that demanded to know who wished entry into Stronghold. He could not hear the answer, but knew what Chay’s reply would be: “His Royal Highness the Prince Pol, heir to the Desert and Princemarch!” Pride welled up in Rohan; he would give his son half the continent, from the Sunrise Water to the Great Veresch. He would also give him laws to rule those lands in peace, the power to enforce the laws, and
faradhi
gifts to keep it all safe. He glanced at Sioned, who had kept
him
safe for twenty-one winters—half his life. She had used her skills and wisdom on his behalf, and to hell with Andrade’s disapproval. Together they were the perfect team. Pol would have Rohan’s power and knowledge combined with Sioned’s Sunrunner gifts. Never mind that she had not physically borne him.

Instinct told him that he had hit on the cause of her uneasiness. Had there been more time, he would have found a way to laugh her out of it. Pol was her son as much as his, and certainly more than he had ever been Ianthe’s. Thought of the dead princess tightened Rohan’s shoulders; he consciously relaxed and took Sioned’s hand. Whatever her outward demeanor he could always tell what she was truly feeling when he touched her. The long fingers quivered just a little, chilled despite the spring warmth, and responded to his gentle squeeze not at all. Was she afraid that in growing up, Pol had grown away from her? Did she not yet understand that her claim on him through love was infinitely stronger than any claim of blood?

The gates of the inner court opened and the riders came through, Pol first as was proper for a young lord returning home. Chay, Tobin, and Maarken followed with ten soldiers. But Rohan had eyes for no one but his son. Pol rode forward to the steps amid the cheers of his people, and gave his parents a formal bow from the saddle.

Rohan and Sioned answered the salute with regal nods and suppressed smiles at Pol’s youthful solemnity. From a corner of his eye Rohan saw Chay grin and Tobin’s eyes roll skyward. He sternly refrained from winking at them. As Pol dismounted, Rohan descended the steps with his wife at his side.

“Welcome home, my son,” he said, and Pol gave him another ceremonious bow. Lleyn and Chadric had certainly taught him pretty manners—but, judging from the smile that suddenly transformed his whole face, they had not done so at the expense of his spirit. It remained only to see if he could abandon formality in the presence of the castlefolk, who had known him all his life and were just as proud and amused as his parents.

Pol passed the test. Royal manners disposed of, he bounded up the steps into his mother’s open arms. Sioned hugged him close, then released him so he could embrace his father. Mussing his son’s dark blond hair, Rohan grinned down at him.

“I thought we’d never get here!” Pol exclaimed. “I’m sorry we’re so late, Mother, but Maarken wanted to chase down a sand-buck—we lost him in Rivenrock, though.”

“Too bad,” Sioned sympathized. “Perhaps we can go after him tomorrow. You look thirsty enough to have been out hunting all day. Shall we go in and have something cool to drink?”

“May I have some time to greet everyone first? And I should take care of my horse, too. Uncle Chay gave her to me for the summer, and I get to ride her to the
Rialla!
”

Rohan nodded permission and Pol ran off. His pride in the boy knew no limits now. Stronghold had seen the changes in Pol’s appearance and behavior, every bit the proper young prince. Now his instincts told him to reestablish the friendships of his childhood. Rohan wondered if Pol knew what made him do it and what the outcome would be, then decided he did not. The actions were all the more engaging for their genuineness and spontaneity.

Chay had dismounted and was approaching the steps, wearing a devilish grin as he made Rohan a low, elaborate bow of homage. Rohan snorted.

“Don’t
you
start!”

“I thought only to follow your son’s excellent example, my prince,” Chay responded. “And if you’ll forgive my humble self and my insignificant son, we’ll follow the rest of Pol’s example and tend our horses. With your gracious leave, my prince?”

“Get out of here, you great idiot,” Tobin scolded, swatting him on the seat as she passed him on the steps.

Rohan looked around for Pol. The boy was in the center of a knot of chattering, teasing soldiers, archers, grooms, maidservants—even Rohan’s chief steward, who evidently felt he should be attending the young master rather than the older one. Rohan shook his head ruefully as he hugged his sister, slightly bemused by the hitherto unrealized power of his son’s charm. But as Tobin kissed Sioned and they went inside, she set him right about things.

“He’s exactly like you at that age,” his sister informed him. “I swear to you, he had everyone at Radzyn ready to battle dragons for him, and I can’t imagine he left Graypearl behind him much different.”