Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire (27 page)

“Which he doesn’t dare inflict on the rest of us,” Tallain replied. “It sounds as if she’s made a friend in you, though.”

“I don’t think she knows what it is to have a friend.” She unbound her hair and angrily began brushing it.

Tallain smiled. Taking the brush from her fingers, he smoothed the thick, dark red waves of her hair, his touch caressing and proud. “I understand your irritation, Sionell. But don’t scrape your head bald over it. Meiglan probably doesn’t see him here as much as she does at Castle Pine, so he has less opportunity to devil her. That alone must be Goddess blessing to the poor girl.”

She closed her eyes, sighing with the pleasure of his hands. “I keep waiting for her to smile a little. This morning we went out picking flowers—nobody can resist Chayla and Rohannon at play. But she was all stiff and withdrawn. It’s pathetic, Tallain. She’s little more than a child herself.”

“Mmm. When one looks at her face, yes. Perhaps.”

Sionell met his gaze in the dressing table mirror. “Which means?”

“There’s a woman’s body on that child. Not a man here hasn’t noticed it.”

Her brows arched. “Yourself included?”

“Of course,” he replied blithely. “But I prefer women who
are
women.”

“Prettily said, my lord.”

“It also has the merit of being the truth—not a thing I’ve heard much of these last six days.”

She turned to face him. “Have you discovered Miyon’s real reason for being here?”

“Nothing I can put my finger on.” He shrugged, tapping the back of the brush against his palm. “It’s as if he’s waiting until lack of agreement makes it necessary for him to visit Stronghold for direct talks with Rohan and Pol. But what he wants from
them
isn’t clear at all.”

“He knows you’re authorized to negotiate in their names,” she mused. “So we’re correct, and this business of yearly fees isn’t his real aim at all. I wonder what he wants.”

“What he’s always wanted: Tiglath itself. We toured the warehouses the other day and his eyes were positively glowing with greed.”

“Has he some scheme in mind to take the city from us?”

“To do that, he’d have to get rid of Rohan. He has no right to the Desert and everyone knows it. He hasn’t the armies to concoct a military victory that would win our land by right of war. Not even Miyon is fool enough to try it.”

“On his own, no. But you’re forgetting his probable allies. Roelstra’s grandsons.”

Tallain nodded, admiration in his face that he never spoke of aloud—which was an even greater compliment than if he had congratulated her on her wits. He
expected
her to be clever; telling her she was would be insulting.

“You’re right. I
had
forgotten. But that still doesn’t tell me why he wants to be at Stronghold.”

“Betrayal from within?” she mused. “He’s got an armed escort. Some of them are probably Merida. It may be hundreds of years since they started their filthy trade, but I doubt their talents for assassination have wilted.”

Tallain shook his head. “Any challenge has to be public. And for that they need Pol alive. That was Rohan’s reasoning in the matter of the pretender nine years ago. He wanted Masul denounced in public so Pol’s right would be in no doubt.” He shrugged again and resumed brushing her hair. “It didn’t quite work out that way, of course. But depend on it, no son of Ianthe’s could be stupid. It wouldn’t be enough simply to kill Pol and seize Princemarch.”

“They’d have his death and his princedom. What else could they want?”

“Revenge. There’s not a vicious bone in your body, my love. You don’t think that way. But consider the sons of a princess, grandsons of a High Prince, condemned to obscurity all their lives.”

Sionell nodded slowly. “It’s just what motivated Masul.”

“But his birth was in doubt. Ruval and Marron know precisely who their mother was.”

“Lucky them,” she said sourly. “Well, at least we don’t have to fear glass knives in our princes’ throats. Whatever happens will happen out in the open. Rohan’s already thought of all this, of course.”

Tallain smiled. “He’d be shocked if we ever doubted it. I’m going to stall Miyon here until Rohan wants him at Stronghold. Which should make for an interesting spring, given Miyon’s behavior and your fondness for Meiglan.” He laughed suddenly. “Do you remember what Rohan said about him once? That rumor had it Miyon made a detailed study of human beings and learned to imitate them rather well. Not perfectly, of course, but he manages to get most of it right.”

She gave him her sweetest smile. “My mother once carved up a dragon to find out how he worked. Perhaps I ought to do the same for Miyon.”

 

 

It had been hard to arrange, but Ruval and Marron had their own chamber at Tiglath. Small, cramped for one person and nearly impossible for two, lacking window or fireplace for light and stuffy beyond toleration, still it had the one essential feature that made it perfect. It locked.

Marron slid the bolt home and secured it. Ruval’s lips twisted at his brother’s long, relieved sigh.

“Too much of a strain?”

“Don’t pretend you’re not tired,” Marron replied irritably. “You may be used to the high dose of
dranath
necessary for this, but it’s not easy.”

“Still, rather amusing, you’ll admit.” Ruval stretched out on one narrow cot, arms folded behind his head, staring up at the rough-hewn ceiling. “I never realized before what scant notice highborns take of those who serve them. For instance, I rode escort with Miyon and Tallain the other day to the merchant quarter, and neither looked twice at me. Miyon’s aware of the shape I’ve taken, but he honestly didn’t see me.”

“I know what you mean.” The younger of the brothers leaned back against the wooden door, fists in the pockets of his trousers. “I used to get the same treatment at Swalekeep. Until I
made
Chiana notice me.” Peering at Ruval by the light of a candlebranch—outrageous expense that indicated the extent of Tallain’s wealth—he snorted suddenly. “You’re fading.”

“I’m relaxing,” Ruval corrected. “And anyway, we
diarmadh’im
can more or less see through this if we’re looking for it. You are. The others aren’t.” He laughed. “I may spend tomorrow around Riyan, if I can manage it.”

“Stay away from him!” Marron warned.

“Stop fretting.” Kicking off his low boots with the soft heels that were mandatory within this residence of polished floors and priceless carpets, Ruval stretched. “Maybe you’re right about this being a strain. Or maybe I’m just bored. By the Nameless One, this bowing and scraping is hard on a man’s nerves. I don’t know how you tolerated it at Swalekeep.” Yawning, he untied the top laces of his light silk shirt. “I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

“Well, let go of the working, then. And get some sleep.”

“Such solicitude, brother,” Ruval said mockingly.

“Self-preservation, brother,” Marron replied in the same tone. “If you start to waver, that’ll put an end to this. And, frankly, I intend to be a guest at Pol’s burning, not the centerpiece at my own.”

Marron blew out the candles one by one. Eight small puffs—but he hesitated before the ninth, glancing at his brother to confirm the slow change. Gone was the eerie impression of sharper cheekbones, cleft chin, brighter hair, and longer jaw superimposed on the familiar like the presence of a ghost. Ruval’s face was again Ruval’s face, not the subtly altered features of a stranger.

Marron let go of his own iron control, bolstered by huge amounts of
dranath.
He didn’t need to reassure himself with the sight of his own transformation in the small mirror by the door; he had watched it before, fascinated. There was little physical sensation either in the assumption of the differences or in their fading, only a slight tingle in his head as he projected the illusion.

At first it had felt as if he was wearing someone else’s clothes—a good fit but not perfect, binding here, loose there. His movements and facial expressions had been correspondingly awkward, the way one walks against one’s natural rhythms, trying to compensate, when wearing another man’s boots.

Only what he and Mireva had designed was a whole new skin, and it had taken time and work to adjust the fit.

The loosening of the spell relaxed him. He glanced at the scar on his wrist, souvenir of a childhood mishap, now visible again. His mouth was his own once more—wider, full-lipped, stretching in his own smile as the release of tension washed through him. He imagined sometimes that he could even feel his eye color change from pale yellowish-green back to brown.

At night even a
diarmadhi
mind must relinquish control, and anyone looking at him or Ruval would see their true forms and features. Thus the locked chamber. Mireva had no need for similar accommodations, and shared a tiny room with Thanys near the nursery. She had never been seen by any of their enemies; the only alteration in her appearance was a concerted effort to make herself seem even older than she was.
Her
illusion working would come later, at Stronghold.

Marron made sure once again that the door was locked, then blew out the last candle and lay down on the second cot. The air was close and hot, and for the past six nights he had not slept well. But tonight he was exhausted, lack of sleep and accumulation of strain from sustaining the illusion finally catching up with him. After turning once or twice to find the least uncomfortable position, he sought and quickly found oblivion.

He did not wake when Ruval sat up, pulled on his boots, and silently left the room.

 

 

Mireva whirled angrily, nearly choking on a swallow of
dranath-
laced wine as the door opened and Thanys slid into their chamber.

“Don’t startle me like that!” she hissed.

“You think
you
got a fright—she’s gone!”

The older woman’s jaw sagged for a moment before she collected herself. “Then
find
the little bitch at once! We don’t have all night!”

“This isn’t a cottage—she could be in any of fifty rooms,” Thanys snapped. “Where do you propose I start looking?”

“I thought I told you to make sure—”

“She hasn’t needed anything to help her sleep. How was I to know she’d pick tonight to go wandering around the residence?”

“Find her! And from now on keep your eyes open—and hers closed!”

Thanys’ face tightened like a clenched fist. “I’ll try the kitchens. She didn’t eat much tonight at dinner—Miyon’s doing,
again.
”

Alone once more, Mireva downed the last of the wine to keep her hands from shaking. Damn the girl—and damn Thanys for not following orders. It had taken serious effort to get her kinswoman appointed Meiglan’s servant two years ago, and even more work to arrange Mireva’s own presence here at Tiglath. Miyon knew what his bastard daughter was being groomed to do, and played his own part with real enthusiasm. But he’d balked at the idea that Meiglan’s consequence required an extra maid—especially when Ruval made the mistake of telling him Mireva would be a valuable asset in more ways than one.

Well, it was done. She kept out of Miyon’s way, not wanting to intercept any caustic glances that might arouse suspicion. Princes did not deign to notice menials.

Shrugging, Mireva slipped out of the room and padded softly down the hall, casting a brief, longing look at the nursery door. Behind it slept the children of Segev’s murderer. Later, she told herself firmly. It would be done when they were all at Stronghold—and preferably right in front of Hollis.

With Miyon in his residence, Tallain had posted guards—supposedly of honor, but fooling no one as to their real purpose. Mireva smiled to herself, recalling what Miyon had said on arriving here: “By all means, Lord Tallain, put someone outside Meiglan’s door to guard whatever honor she has. She certainly didn’t inherit any from her mother.” Yes, he was enjoying his role in their little scheme.

But there was no guard outside Meiglan’s chambers right now. Mireva, prepared with a distraction, was glad she didn’t have to expend the energy. Perhaps Thanys had been clever for once and enlisted the man’s aid in finding their wayward charge. But how had Meiglan gotten past him in the first place?

Again she shrugged; it didn’t matter. What mattered was the tall form that suddenly detached itself from the shadows and crept toward her from the staircase. She opened Meiglan’s door and the two of them were swiftly inside the antechamber.

“What’s going on?” Ruval demanded instantly.

“Save your breath. We’ll have to hide you until she gets back and into bed again—” Her heart jumped painfully for the second time that night as she heard soft voices outside in the hallway. Flinging open the door of a huge standing wardrobe, she hissed, “In here! Quickly!”

“This is ridiculous—”

“Silence!”

She slammed the wardrobe shut just in time. Meiglan was ushered into the antechamber by a scolding Thanys, looking chastened but with a spark of defiance in her big brown eyes. Mireva made a mental note to keep the girl away from Sionell; that lady’s independent spirit was influencing her.

“—in the middle of the night! Whatever were you thinking of?”

“I only wanted some taze and cakes—and the guard was kind enough to escort me downstairs so I wouldn’t get lost—”

“My lady, you should have sent him to fetch me, and I would have had
Mireva
bring you something to eat,” Thanys said, with a subtly sarcastic look at the older woman. She went on talking all the way to Meiglan’s bed, where the girl was summarily tucked up beneath silk sheets. “—and hope you don’t dream after drinking Lady Sionell’s spicy taze at this time of night!”

“Dreams don’t necessarily have to be bad ones,” Mireva said soothingly, deciding that her kinswoman could be forgiven the disrespect; she had just provided Mireva with a lovely opening for suggestion. “And Lady Sionell’s blend is a very good one, I’m told. I’m sure you’ll have happy dreams, my lady.”