Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire (18 page)

“Your Ostvel,” Rohan had told him once, smiling. “He, too, took all the everyday worries of running a castle from me, so I could sit back and think great thoughts!”

And as Ostvel had become Rohan’s friend, so Rialt was Pol’s. This year Prince Chadric and Princess Audrite were bringing Rialt’s two daughters from Graypearl to live with their father. Pol looked forward to having more little ones running rampant around the palace—but he knew that what he really wanted were children of his own.

Finding their mother, however. . . . He frowned again at the inevitable return to the inevitable Choice awaiting him. Noting the expression, Rialt sighed.

“If you’re determined to be aggravated, my lord, please do everyone a service and do it elsewhere! The older servants know better by now, but the new ones still walk in terror of their Sunrunner prince—and your expression is anything but reassuring.”

Pol was startled out of his mood. “Are they really frightened of me?”

Rialt grinned at him. “It doesn’t help when you light every candle in your suite all at once, you know.
Plus
the hearth fire.”

A smile twitched one corner of his mouth. “Mother scolds me for being a bit of an exhibitionist. Very well, I’ll take my temper into the gardens and terrorize the roses. And try to remember to resist my more startling impulses.”

Rialt chuckled. “I recall very well my own startlement in Giamo’s inn that day nine years ago.”

Their first meeting teased Pol’s mind: himself and Meath, peacefully eating a meal; a Merida posing as a Gribain soldier starting a fight meant to cover the assassination of the High Prince’s heir; Pol’s instinctive call of Fire that had given Meath a precious moment of surprise; Rialt’s competence with his fists during the brawl. Pol clapped his friend on the back. “I startled
myself,
too. But we both seem to have gotten over it. I’ll be in the gardens if you need me.”

The roses ruled serenely in the soft spring sunlight. Pol had arranged the plantings so that some part of the gardens was in bloom all year long; winter flowers lingered now, and spring blossoms were on the verge of opening. Summer and early autumn were the spectacular seasons, with a profusion of color such as made
faradhi
senses drunk.

The water garden was laid out in the central court between the two identical buildings Rialt irreverently called twin barns. Rose trees were growing large enough to coax into shapes like torches; when in full bloom, gradations of color from yellow to crimson would make them appear like rows of flames. Herbs and hardy little rainflowers bordering the paths were the only color now. By summer the air would be alive with the scent of roses and the music of fountains.

Beyond was the informal garden, a teeming riot of botany barely contained by hedges that separated plants and walkway. Audrite had helped Pol plan this area for shape and texture as well as color. Delicate ferns nestled near substantial flowering shrubbery; round-leafed plants alternated with tall blooms and sprays of ornamental grasses; rising banks of strange, spiraling Desert succulents supported graceful trees whose lacy canopies offered summer shade. Other princes thought him utterly mad, he knew, to discourage elaborate gifts and ask instead for cuttings from their lands. But the result was a garden unlike anything ever seen before. Pol never walked through it in any season without feeling lighter of heart.

Now, with winter only days over and spring making its first few tentative responses to the warming sun, the garden was scant of flowers but full of beauty just the same. Pol wandered along a path covered in coarse dark sand from Skybowl’s slopes, pausing to admire the juxtaposition of dark green vines winding up a pale golden bunchberry tree, fluted red winterbells snuggled close to a broad-leafed fern. Desert-born and Desert-bred though he was, he had taken Princemarch to him and made it part of his heart. The land and its people had done the same to him; he belonged to them now as surely as he belonged to the Desert. The odd thing was that he felt no conflict. Different as the two were, they were both his as much as he was theirs. He’d begun to feel in the last few years that he was the living link between them. His children would strengthen that bond.

Pol swore in exasperation. He wanted to avoid thinking about that aspect of the future, yet everything brought him back to it. Very well, he
would
think about it. It appeared he had little choice.

Little choice, either, in the manner of woman he must wed. He had always known she must be
faradhi-
gifted. One Sunrunner parent was no guarantee of continuing the heritage, certain only if both possessed the talent; at the very least there should be Sunrunners in her family. But what if he fell in love with a girl who had not the slightest hint of the gift? Well, he simply would not allow it, that was all. At times he felt a wistful desire to have it all done for him the way Lady Andrade had arranged his parents’ marriage. But he rebelled at the notion of Andry’s doing such a thing for him, which led him to consider his wariness of all trained
faradhi
women. It was a terrible thing to admit, but he wasn’t sure he could entirely trust a wife who had been Andry’s student. His father had never had the slightest doubt of his mother’s loyalty—but then, Sioned had glimpsed Rohan’s face in Fire and Water when she was only sixteen. She had always been committed to him because she had always known.

While still under Meath and Eolie’s tutelage on Dorval, before his return to Stronghold to become Urival and Morwenna’s student—with substantial lessons from his mother—Pol had once looked into Fire and Water. The summer after his sixteenth birthday he had been allowed formally to demonstrate his ability to call Fire and was given his first ring. It was not a true Sunrunner’s ring, just as Maarken’s first had been given by Rohan and not Andrade. But silver crowned with a tiny moonstone from one of Andrade’s own rings had been placed on his right middle finger. And that afternoon Meath had ridden with him to the ruins of a
faradhi
castle, shown him a tree circle much like the one near Goddess Keep, and left him there alone.

Pol had scooped moss and dead leaves from a stone basin sunk into the ground. Enough water remained for the simple conjuring. He was well aware that he was not following the ritual as specified for many hundreds of years. He had not spent the previous night with a
faradhi
woman wearing the guise of the Goddess for his man-making night—that initiation having been rendered unnecessary by a lovely and enthusiastic kitchen maid at Graypearl. But he obeyed Meath’s directions and called Fire across the shallow water. And in it he had seen only himself: a face fully matured, proud, serious but with ready laughter hovering around the curve of the mouth, and the circlet of royalty crossing his brow. His mother had seen her future husband’s face as well as her own, and Pol had hoped for a similar vision. But there was only the one face, his face. He studied it with surprise and shy approval. He would enjoy being that man, old enough to make his own decisions and run his own life.

He grinned ruefully now at the memory. If he’d thought his life would be easier once he had control over it, he had been even more innocent than most boys. He enjoyed ruling his own palace while learning from Ostvel how to rule a princedom, and pleasing himself in the matter of his guests, his gardens, his everyday activities, and—truth be told—his bedmates. But if he’d caught a glimpse of his destined wife in the flames dancing gently across the Water, at least he would have known who to look for. And that part of his life would have been settled.

Suddenly he could hear Sionell laughing at him. “Poor prince!” she would say. “More wealth than he knows what to do with, the most beautiful palace ever built, fine horses racing through his paddocks, and
two
princedoms to rule one day—feeling sorry for himself because he can’t find a woman to complete this portrait of perfection! Poor, poor prince!”

Imagination provided memory of her bracing mockery, fond and nettled all at once, and the teasing glint in blue eyes below coils of dark red hair. If only he could find someone with Ell’s wit and understanding, someone he could talk to and depend on. Tallain was a lucky man.

A glance at the sun reminded him that he had a late afternoon appointment with an emissary from Gilad. He was not looking forward to it, but it would at least be a distraction. He ran up to his own chambers and washed away the stink and dirt of horse—and abrupt contact with the ground. He was about to go back downstairs when his scandalized squire hurried in with one of the casually elegant outfits Aunt Tobin regularly sent him. She despaired of his ever developing the right instincts about his appearance, something that came naturally to his father. Pol was oblivious when it came to clothes, and tended to greet important persons in dusty riding rig or with half the rosebeds on his trousers rather than the silk and velvet decreed by his position. Tobin’s gifts were compromise, being cut as comfortably and casually as everyday clothes, but made of gorgeous fabrics she chose herself when the silk ships came to port at Radzyn. Pol wrinkled his nose at the green shirt, dark blue tunic, and gray trousers presented for his inspection, then laughed as the boy’s face turned stubborn.

“Stop glowering at me, Edrel,” he chided. “I know I have to look pretty for the Giladans.”

“Very good, my lord.” Thirteen years old, nearly as dark as a Fironese, Edrel was the younger son of Pol’s vassal Lord Cladon of River Ussh. He had been a year at Dragon’s Rest, was the very first of Pol’s squires, and took his duties with absolute seriousness. Pol had been trying to teach him a sense of humor, but thus far had had little luck.

As he donned clothes, Edrel gave brief descriptions of the guests without being asked. It was a little trick Pol had developed, and not entirely for his own amusement. Edrel escorted visitors to an audience chamber, then came to Pol with verbal sketches of any unknowns in the group. It flattered guests to be identified on sight by their host—but it also amazed them that somehow Pol instantly knew who was whom without introductions. A nice bonus was the training Edrel received in powers of observation and judgment. It was a task at which the solemn little boy excelled.

Prince Cabar had sent his cousin Lord Barig and two experts on Giladan law. His lordship was characterized as short, gray, bearing little resemblance to his grace of Gilad, of an age with Pol’s father but looking many winters older and, “Rather sour, my lord. The lawyers are worse.”

“Lawyers usually are.”

“My lord!” Edrel’s own studies at Dragon’s Rest included law.

He fastened his shirtsleeves. “I admire my father with all my heart for instilling such respect for the law in everyone—but people who study it are thunderously dull. I anticipate an excruciating afternoon. Perhaps I’ll cancel it and go out riding instead. I’d cut quite a figure in these clothes on horseback, don’t you think?” He grinned at the boy.

It took Edrel several moments to realize he was being teased. He reacted with a tentative smile. Pol clapped him approvingly on the shoulder and gave himself a swift glance in a mirror before leaving his dressing chamber for the corridor outside.

Edrel scampered ahead of him to be the first at the door of the reception room. The boy straightened his own clothes, gave his prince’s outfit a critical look that made Pol grin, and nodded importantly to the page who opened the great wooden doors inlaid with bronze. Edrel stepped through, bowed slightly to the three men within, and announced, “His Grace of Princemarch.”

Pol distributed a polite smile all around as they inclined their heads to him. “Lord Barig,” he said, “we hope you had a pleasant journey from Medawari, and that his grace our cousin is well.”

Use of the plural was cue enough to any courtier. His lordship bowed again, murmuring affirmatives, and did not introduce the socially inferior lawyers. Pol gestured to chairs and they were all seated. Edrel hovered at the door, waiting for word about refreshment. Pol gave none. This was a formal audience, not a private chat.

Barig took some time to get to the point. Pol could have set to music the standard progression of topics. First the civil inquiries about his parents’ health, then the compliments on the beauties of Dragon’s Rest, then the remarks about the weather, made interesting this year only because of the winter downpours that had half-drowned the continent. A digression was made when he mentioned a visit to Swalekeep on the way here. Finally the usual wishes for a fine and profitable
Rialla
were expressed. That done, Pol wondered how Barig would work his way around to Sunrunners.

He did it with a strategic return to the weather. Sour-faced he certainly was, and gray from his hair and eyes to his goat’s wool tunic, but Pol gave him credit for a nice degree of subtlety.

“I trust this long season of rain has not interfered too much with
faradhi
communication, your grace. It must be frustrating for Sunrunners to be trapped by the weather like the rest of us.”

“Clouds are a
faradhi
’s natural enemy,” Pol responded. “But we manage.”

“Then your grace will have been apprised of certain unhappy events in Gilad. Specifically, this matter of a Sunrunner’s involvement with the death of one of our most distinguished citizens.”

“Yes. We have heard something of it.” He had, in fact, heard a great deal. Thacri, a master weaver who lived near the Giladan seat of Medawari, had contracted a severe fever at winter’s end.
Farad-h’im
had knowledge of medicine, though not as extensive as trained physicians; in the absence of the latter, Sunrunners offered their services. Despite the best efforts of a young
faradhi
traveling through the area, the man died on the first night of the ten-day New Year Holiday. Afterward it was discovered that one of the potions tried against the fever had been concocted wrongly. And therein lay the difficulty.

Barig presented his case. “The position of His Grace of Gilad is that this Sunrunner, acting beyond her capacity as a physician, is responsible for the death of Master Thacri.”