Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire (29 page)

“I was afraid of that. What was all the fuss?”

“Meiglan had a dream.”

“Oh. Good thing we put her father in the other wing—Goddess knows how long it would’ve taken to calm her if he’d been there jeering at the poor child.”

She hollowed out a comfortable position in his arms and smiled. She had never regretted marrying Tallain, never mourned for an instant that he wasn’t Pol. “Good night, love,” she whispered in the darkness. “Gentle dreams.”

“Mmm,” he responded. “I’m holding the best one . . . not the
sweetest,
perhaps—not with your temper—but definitely the best.”

“Oh, keep talking,” Sionell purred. “I
love
it.”

“And me.”

“And you.”

“I know,” he said smugly.

“Conceited swine.”

F
ifteen years in the rich coastal lands of Goddess Keep had not blunted Andry’s Desert-bred reaction to spring. He still watched the fields respond to the lengthening days with wide-eyed wonderment, and knew his Sunrunners often grinned behind their hands when he expressed his amazement at the yearly renewal. But as he rode with Oclel and Nialdan down from Feruche that spring, his companions laughed openly at the stunned silence with which he greeted the Desert’s incredible blooming.

“You’d think he’d never seen a flower before,” Nialdan teased.

Andry finally found his voice. “You don’t understand. All you’re seeing is what you’ve seen all your life. What I’m seeing is a miracle.”

One that Sorin would never witness.

Andry had spent two days at Feruche, the first time he had ever been to his brother’s castle. It had been nearly as painful as that abrupt, searing moment when he’d known Sorin was dead. Feruche was permeated with his twin’s energy, thoughtfulness, and disciplined taste in design and decoration. Every stone, every timber, every tapestry had been selected and set with care and purpose; the castle was a marvel of beauty and strength, neither dominant, each existing within and complementing the other. Andry walked hallways Sorin had planned, slept in rooms Sorin had embellished, ran his fingers over wood carved to Sorin’s specifications, stood in the great hall where Sorin had sat to administer justice. Anguish, deadened somewhat by the long, exhausting ride from Goddess Keep, had returned full force. He had spent the night before last in Sorin’s private chambers, looking out at the moon-drenched sand. And at last he had given way to tears, as he had not done even when the first brutal impact of death had slammed into his senses.

Riding the last measures to Stronghold after spending the previous night in the open—there being no reason to stop at Skybowl with Riyan at Tiglath—sorrow had at first been eased by the stupendous bounty all around him. But Sorin would never see it. And from grief it was but a short pace to anger.

He blamed Pol. But he blamed himself even more for not seeking out every
diarmadhi
in all the princedoms. The one foolish action in all Lady Merisel’s long life had been allowing her enemies to flee just punishment. The histories were silent on why she had not pursued and eradicated them as they deserved. It could not have been because they were unidentifiable.

Sunrunners, violently ill when they crossed water, couldn’t swim a stroke. There were tales of
faradh’im
who drowned in shallow, placid water where even a child could have floated safely. But sorcerers had no such difficulties. This would make a useful trap when Andry chose to spring it. Sorin’s death had convinced him that he should make that choice soon, before anyone else could die at
diarmadhi
hands.

Why had Merisel not destroyed those who had cost Lord Rosseyn his life? In all his study of the scrolls, Andry had come to know almost everything about her but that one puzzling thing. He had reviewed her actions and through them had deduced her reasons for taking them, reasons that revealed her as a strong, shrewd, brilliant woman. In truth, at his initial reading of the histories she had dictated in her old age, he had fallen a little in love with her. But where at first he had imagined her as a combination of his fiercely proud mother, his fiery Aunt Sioned, and his formidable great-aunt Andrade, for the last nine years the face Merisel wore in his thoughts was very much like Alasen’s.

Only Sorin had ever really understood Andry’s despair at losing Alasen. Now that solace was lost to him as surely as Alasen herself. Three children she had given Ostvel now: two daughters, Camigwen and Milar, and the son born two summers ago. Sorin, at Castle Crag on business for Pol when Dannar was born, had reported that the red hair that seemed to have vanished from the Kierstian line with Sioned had made an emphatic reappearance in Alasen’s son. Sorin had understood that Andry craved word of her, any scrap of information that would prove her decision the right one. He was not a selfish man, nor a vindictive one; he cared for her still and wanted her to be happy. Yet it was like worrying a sore tooth: exquisitely painful, impossible to resist.

His fury against life for making him the one man Alasen loved and feared in equal measure had faded. He had even sent small gifts to celebrate her children’s births. Odds were that at least one and possibly all three would be
faradhi-
gifted—and he intended her children to become what Alasen would never be. Practically speaking, the Sunrunners could not afford to lose the strength of the Kierstian heritage that had produced Sioned and Pol. More personally, Andry wanted the link these children would provide to their mother. He would supervise their learning and come to know them as people, the daughters and son who might have been his.

He had even stopped thinking
should
have been his. Sorin had helped him to see that the truest expression of love for her was to let her go. He might still believe that her greatest happiness and fulfillment would have come at his side, with earned rings of Sunrunner rank glittering from her slender fingers. But the choice had been hers to make. He had learned to live with it. The years had at least distanced him from the pain.

By way of Donato, Castle Crag’s Sunrunner, she and Ostvel had sent word of their grief at Sorin’s death. Alasen had grown up with him in her father’s castle of New Raetia, where he had been Prince Volog’s squire. She grieved as if she too had lost a brother. But if Andry had hoped for a more personal message, he had not admitted it to himself. What would be the use?

“Is that it? Are we nearly there?”

Oclel’s voice roused him and he glanced to the craggy hilltop indicated by a pointing finger. “That’s the Flametower,” he said shortly, and the change in his voice from the excited awe of his last words made his companions stiffen.

The fire burning within the Flametower was invisible during daylight, but at night became a beacon across the Desert. It had blazed for the nearly thirty years since his grandfather Zehava had died after being gored by a dragon. When Rohan died, his fire would be extinguished as Zehava’s had been. The huge circular chamber would then be scrubbed clean—by Sioned if she survived him—and Pol would light new flames, his own, from the Fire called by Sunrunners to burn Rohan’s corpse. Pol would then hold both Princemarch and the Desert as High Prince. It should have given Andry great satisfaction that the man who would become the most powerful prince on the continent was a Sunrunner and his close kinsman. It did not. He hoped Rohan’s fire burned for another thirty years.

Andry had never approached Stronghold from this direction before. Nialdan and Oclel had never been in the Desert at all. Riding north from Radzyn, the great keep was visible for forty measures. But coming down from Skybowl and Feruche, all that showed was the Flametower, the bulk of the castle hidden by an outcropping of rock like a finger half-crooked into the dunes. As the three
farad-h’im
rode around it, Stronghold abruptly appeared in all its blunt, massive power.

Nialdan whistled; Oclel gave a soft exclamation. Even Andry, who had been here countless times, was impressed by the sudden view of thick walls, huge towers, and pennants flying from the gatehouse. Princemarch’s violet flag rose there, too, on a staff just as high as the Desert blue with its golden dragon; Radzyn’s red and white, Skybowl’s blue and brown, the blue and white of Remagev, and the red and orange of Whitecliff all flew below those of the two princes in residence. The colors proclaimed pride and power and prestige; Andry was irked with himself for not remembering to bring along his own plain white banner which by tradition would have flown at equal height with those of princes. It was a small point, but neglect of any of Goddess Keep’s perquisites was undesirable. People, especially
these
people, needed to remember exactly who he was.

The approach led up a narrow defile and through a tunnel carved from solid rock, under the guards’ quarters and the main gates to the outer courtyard. Another gate would lead them through to the central court, where Andry was betting that only his parents would come to greet him.

The trio had been spotted. Andry reined in and held up both hands to identify himself with rings and bracelets that jealousy hoarded the sunlight. As the dragon horn sounded and gates were opened to him, he imagined what would be happening within the castle. His mother’s insistence that she be the one to handle him would be obeyed by everyone except his father. Maarken might attempt to join them, but a glance from Chay would send him back to his seat. They would wait for him on the main steps, expecting anger, hurt, sullen resentment.

Andry decided to confound them.

 

 

Dinner that evening in the Great Hall left Nialdan and Oclel speechless. In honor of the Lord of Goddess Keep, Rohan had ordered his cooks to heights of artistry and his chamberlain to extremes of elegance normally reserved only for the New Year Holiday or visiting princes. Dragon’s Rest had been built in part for the kind of show a High Prince was supposed to lavish on his guests; Stronghold was all the more impressive in its finery for being designed as a defensive fortress from cellars to towers. The beauty of Dragon’s Rest hid its carefully planned military strength, but for sheer magnificence nothing could compare with Stronghold bedecked for a formal occasion. Massive stones garlanded with flowers and greenery presented the aspect of a brawny warrior in ceremonial armor: muscle covered by polished silver and softest silk, but ready for battle just the same.

This was not lost on Andry, though he was used to it. His whole family was like that: steel wrapped in velvet. Nialdan and Oclel were as awestruck as Rohan obviously intended them to be. It vaguely irritated Andry. Still, he had the family pride in the family seat, and his sense of humor allowed a private salute to Rohan’s instincts. Anyone would think more than twice about opposing the High Prince in anything after seeing Stronghold at its most impressive.

And, too, he knew that the display was not merely for his two Sunrunners. It was practice for Miyon of Cunaxa’s expected arrival.

Sioned told him as much flat out. “Tallain isn’t having much luck with him at Tiglath. So I suppose Miyon will be here fairly soon.” She made a face. “And as a good, dutiful princess, I’ll have to dance with the snake.”

They were more or less isolated at the high table. After the meal Rohan had left his wife’s side to confer with Feylin about, inevitably, dragons; Maarken and Pol were trying to master the art of juggling greased sticks as demonstrated by a pair of traveling entertainers who had shown off their skills between courses. Tobin and Hollis were laughing at their frustrations. Of the others, Walvis endeavored to convince Chay regarding some finer point of estate management, with pretty Ruala of Elktrap listening avidly. Morwenna, displaced from the usual Sunrunner’s seat by the presence of
faradh’im
more high-ranking than she, watched the whole with a gaze that for all its dark Fironese tilt reminded Andry forcibly of Andrade’s shrewd blue eyes. He could sense her even when he was not looking at her, watching and judging, ignoring Nialdan’s and Oclel’s attempts at conversation.

“What do you think he wants?” Andry asked in response to Sioned’s last remark.

“You’re Desert-bred, you know exactly what he wants.”

“Preferably Radzyn Port,” Andry acknowledged with a little smile. “Will he settle for anything less while he lives?”

“He’ll have to. But you’re right, of course. It’s damned irksome to have him always sneaking around up north.”

“At least he’ll be here for a while where you can watch him.”

“Mmm. Sometimes I think his merchants are even worse than he is.”

“They’re only trying to survive, Sioned.”

“I have no objection to that. Where I begin to get irritated is when they equate their survival with our destruction.” She gave a comical grimace. “Not an entirely new experience.”

Andry sipped his wine, then said, “I’ve been wondering when you’d get around to mentioning the dragon-killer.”

“I’ve been wondering if I dared.” She met his gaze forthrightly. “I admire your self-command.”

It was recognition of his unexpectedly placid manner thus far, and suspicion of it. His easy manner and his quiet entrance into Stronghold had not gone unnoticed—he hadn’t thought it would. He nodded noncommittally.

“You were always honest with me as a little boy,” she murmured.

“You may have noticed that I’ve grown up.”

“Don’t spar with me, Andry.”

“Why not? Do you fear you’d lose?”

Looking for a frown, he received a smile—and remembered that Sioned had had far more years of training under Andrade than he. “You speak as if there were some matter of contention between us, nephew.”

“Isn’t there?”

“Are you determined to make it so?”

He desperately wanted to abandon his pose and was within a breath of doing so when she spoke again.

“Have you ever counted up the times I’ve lost?”