Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire (32 page)

Duty required that he inform Princess Chiana first. Thus he went upstairs and asked to be admitted to her private chambers. One of her squires arrogantly demanded to know his purpose. Vamanis was tempted to read the boy a lecture on the respect due Sunrunners, but then decided this was too minor a matter to stand on ceremony he hadn’t much use for anyway. So he merely smiled and waited patiently while the squire took the request to his mistress.

Chiana saw him alone. She wore one of her plainer gowns and only a few of the diamonds she so adored and that her husband lavished on her. Vamanis noted that she had on a bracelet of twisting silver wires he had fashioned for her during his first year at Swalekeep, when he had still entertained hopes of being a real court Sunrunner instead of an ignored lackey.

“Your grace honors me,” he said with a bow.

She saw the direction of his gaze. “Oh—you mean the bracelet,” she replied, and he was reminded that she could be a surpassingly beautiful woman when she chose to smile. “Actually, I was about to send for you, Vamanis. But first tell me your news.”

He did so, watched her slight frown, and then asked, “How may I be of service to your grace?”

“Service? Oh. I would have asked one of the resident crafters, but I was going through my jewels and was reminded how clever and delicate your work is. The frame of my mirror is ready to break. Can you fix it for me?”

If he had hoped for some
faradhi
task, he did not show his disappointment. He advanced to the mirror, admiring the workmanship. Somehow a piece of silver had been bent near to breaking, a section of vine that twisted down the left-hand side.

“Not too serious, your grace,” he reported. “I’ll have to remove this bit here to reshape it, then reattach the vine.”

“But it can be repaired?”

“Of course.” At least it would give him something to do. “I’ll need my tools. With your grace’s permission, I’ll go fetch them and—”

Suddenly he could not speak, not even to cry out. It was as if something had trapped him inside his own skull and deprived him of all will and volition. He could see the princess in the mirror, her diamonds striking light like glass shards into his eyes. He could not even blink.

A word left his mouth, resonant and complex, a sound he could not have remembered or duplicated. Chiana froze instantly. And Vamanis suddenly knew what was being done to him. With him.

“Is everything prepared?” he heard his own voice ask.

“Everything,” the princess answered.

“Everything in secrecy?”

“Everything,” she repeated.

“Excellent. You have done well, Chiana, and soon you will have your heart’s desire.” Vamanis stared at the princess in the mirror.

“Soon,” she said, eyes alight with eagerness.

“Remember none of this, as you remember nothing of our conversations. But you
will
remember to take the mirror with you.”

“I will remember about the mirror.”

A spasm took hold of his throat like a strangling fist. His eyes were abruptly blind, his senses opaque. Part of his mind screamed for help.

And a voice answered.

Heard of this technique, have you, Sunrunner? Using another’s eyes and ears to observe is a
faradhi
trick not taught to many. But I have actually used your voice. Impressive, don’t you think?

Of course. A fortuitous little piece of damage to the frame, wasn’t it?
The voice, rich and gloating, laughed inside his mind.
You Sunrunners know certain things but by no means all. I see your face as clearly as you do, for I am indeed using your eyes. But you’re looking flushed, Sunrunner. Feeling feverish and ill, aren’t you? I think you are becoming very sick, and will remain so. And in your sickness you will not remember this as anything other than a fever dream.

Monster!
he screamed.

I? You
faradh’im
are the monsters, perverting ancient knowledge, turning it soft and bloodless! Although I’ll admit that this Lord Andry you don’t entirely approve of has some interesting notions about power. You may rest easy, Sunrunner. He won’t live long enough to carry them through. Return to your chamber now—you’re feeling very, very ill, aren’t you? You need to be alone and in the dark. The light hurts your eyes. You must stay out of the sunlight.

Vamanis staggered against the mirror, toppling it and most of the princess’ brushes and jars of makeup and scent. Heat raged through his whole body, a fever that set his very bones ablaze. Chiana’s angry cry split his head open and he collapsed onto the fallen mirror.

“Get up! What’s wrong with you?” The princess kicked him to one side and he groaned. “Clumsy idiot! You could have broken my mirror!”

He wasn’t sure why, but he knew that the mirror could not remain whole. He reached for it, light reflecting off his rings like knives into his eyes as he fisted his hand.

Chiana’s foot descended on his wrist. His eyes teared with frustration and failure, his fingers uncurling helplessly as the fever drowned him in darkness.

 

 

Chiana paced impatiently as her squire righted the mirror and assessed the damage. Only that one silver vine had needed mending before—she couldn’t quite recall how it had been bent, but that hardly mattered; now the complex knotwork at the top had come loose. That lout of a Sunrunner would have much to answer for when he recovered from his sudden and mysterious illness. She had had him removed to his own chamber.

“Well?” she snapped.

“Intact, your grace, but for this bit here. I think it can be repaired by tomorrow evening, your grace.”

“I won’t be deprived of my favorite mirror for even half that long. Fix it tonight. I don’t care who you have to wake up to get the work done!”

“Yes, your grace. At once.” The squire departed, the mirror borne carefully in his arms.

Chiana paced some more, fretting. She wanted that mirror with her when she left tomorrow morning. No need to live like a complete barbarian in the field—and when she occupied Dragon’s Rest, it would be satisfying to put something of her own in Prince Pol’s private suite.

“Chiana? What’s the trouble here?”

She spun around as her husband entered the chamber. “A slight accident. Nothing to be alarmed about. But Vamanis damaged my beautiful mirror!”

“I’m sure it can be mended.” Halian gestured and the squire bowed himself out. “The master of horse tells me you’ve ordered that Kadari mare saddled early tomorrow. Would you like some company?”

“How sweet of you, darling,” she purred. “But you know how fond I’ve grown of a solitary ride now and then. It clears my head of all the wretched politics.”

Duties he had no talent for, and that would have been utterly neglected if not for her. After years of wishing his aged father dead and burned, Halian had played at being prince for a little while and then gladly shoved the burdens onto her. That she had been more than willing to shoulder them did not counter her disgust at his laziness. There was much to be said for a prince’s early death; it allowed a son to rule while still young and vigorous, before he had grown too accustomed to constant leisure and lack of power.

During his years of waiting for Clutha to die, Halian had become fond of horses, drink, his illegitimate daughters by a long-dead mistress, and some discreet wenching now and then. Had it been anything other than discreet, Chiana would have dealt with the women as her mother Lady Palila had done with her father’s other mistresses. It was his total indifference to the wonderful son she had given him that really rankled, but she had learned to shrug it off. Though his dedication to his pleasures left her free to rule as she pleased, any respect she had ever had for him was gone. She had craved power all her life; Halian had lost the desire many years ago. Power was too much work.

“As you like, my love.” He gave her an idle caress. “What was Vamanis doing in here?”

She had almost forgotten the Sunrunner’s news. “The High Prince wants Barig at Stronghold. One can guess why.” Even Halian would be able to figure that one out. “Lord Andry will have gone there after his stay at Feruche. Do you think they’ll decide about this stupid Sunrunner there, or put it off until the
Rialla?
”

“Whichever, it really doesn’t concern us.”

She had not quite given up exasperation at his obtuseness. Would he never understand that everything that occurred in all the princedoms concerned them? But she had something else on her mind now, a possibility that had not previously occurred to her. Barig’s cousin Prince Cabar disliked and distrusted the Desert and the Sunrunners; if Barig could be brought to support her in exchange for her support against Andry, then he might very well threaten Rohan with the Giladan armies in support of her claim to Princemarch. And with Gilad would come Grib. Cunaxa was already assured.

Could she convince Barig to her cause in a single evening?

Perhaps. Perhaps. At least she could hint at remarkable doings and suggest that he be ready to advise his prince in her favor. He was not a stupid man; he would comprehend that she intended to move.

She gave Halian a bright smile. “Of course it has nothing to do with us, dearest. Nothing at all.”

F
eylin, Lady of Remagev and counter of dragons, loathed crowds. The entire population of Stronghold stood waiting in the hot sun, for Rohan had ordered up princely honors for Miyon’s arrival from Tiglath. Not because the Cunaxan expected it, though he would—or deserved it, for he didn’t—but because such display would be an unmistakable reminder to a man lacking in subtlety. Only a moron would fail to be impressed by the sight of the castle guard, wearing battle blue and harness, lining a pathway all the way through the tunnel into the main courtyard. Rohan’s family and vassals, arranged in strict order of precedence on the main steps, were impressive in and of themselves.

The Lord and Lady of Remagev were of minor importance in terms of prestige, though few were closer personally to the High Prince. Walvis had been Rohan’s squire and had, in fact, know him longer than Sioned had. But Remagev, once a holding in possession of Rohan’s cousin who had died without heirs, was technically lower in rank than Tuath Castle or Faolain Lowland or Whitecliff, and certainly far below the crown jewel that was Radzyn. But though Walvis and Feylin had as little use for the protocol of position as their prince, standing on the fringes of the highborn assembly afforded a much better view. They could watch everything without being noticed, unlike Chay and Maarken and their wives, who were front and center and themselves the objects of many sharp eyes.

Feylin shifted her shoulder beneath the deep blue silk of her formal tunic. It was hot and she regretted the layers of clothing necessary for this absurd welcome as much as she begrudged the time it took away from her studies. When the dragon horn sounded, she was mentally reviewing statistics that had come in through Sunrunner means only that morning. The count of dragons this year was seventeen sires, eighty-five females, and sixty-three immature dragons not yet old enough for mating. Those numbers had held more or less steady for three cycles, reassuring her that the population had stabilized. But it was still dangerously low. And disaster had happened at Feruche two years ago, when five caves had collapsed. A total of only thirty-six caverns were now available there and near Skybowl—which meant that forty-nine of the females would die.

Feylin had worried at the problem until her wits ached, but there was only one solution: persuade the dragons back to Rivenrock with its one hundred seven lovely, spacious,
perfect
caves, unused since the Plague. Dragons had died by the hundreds then at Rivenrock and had shunned the place ever since. But if they did not return there or find other caves, their numbers would not increase to a level Feylin considered safe.

If they would only use Rivenrock, all eighty-five females would produce at least two and, with very good luck, four hatchlings each to fly from the caves. Call it three apiece, which would make it—

“Stop that,” her husband whispered in her ear, startling her.

“Stop what? I wasn’t doing anything.”

“You’re counting dragons on your fingers again.” He tugged playfully at the dark red braid trailing down her back. “I’m willing to put up with your maps and anatomy diagrams at meals and even your muttered calculations while we’re in bed—”

“I never!” Feylin exclaimed.

“You do so. As your sweet-natured, long-suffering, adoring husband, I’ll endure your dragons most of the time, but the least you can do is pay attention to the arrival of your own children.” He grinned down at her.

Feylin glanced around. The chamberlain was calling out Miyon’s titles and all eyes were fixed on the gates, so she felt safe enough in giving Walvis her sweetest smile—and an elbow to the ribs. “
That
for your sweet nature!”

He grunted with the impact, a sound lost in the shouts and cries that greeted Miyon’s entrance. Feylin forgot dragons in the satisfaction of knowing that the people of Stronghold gave not a damn about the Cunaxan prince; they were welcoming Tallain, Riyan, Maarken’s two children, and her own Sionell and Jahnavi.

She evaluated the familiar faces quickly. Tallain was wary beneath the bland facade which he did even better than Rohan, from whom he had learned it. Sionell was serene, but there was a strained look around her eyes. Riyan’s tension showed only in his tight grip on the reins. Jahnavi was poised, alert, but innocent of the undercurrents disturbing the others. Grace notes were provided by Chayla and Rohannon—riding without lead reins, Feylin noted approvingly—who bounced excitedly on their ponies at being part of this grown-up spectacle. She saw Hollis direct a quelling look at the children and smiled when Chayla straightened up and kicked her brother into proper decorum that lasted all of two paces.