Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire (33 page)

Miyon’s expression was not as easy to read. He nodded amiably enough to the crowd, but his smile was a mere stretching of his lips and his eyes were black frost. Yet there was a sleek, smug look about him that puzzled Feylin. Rohan and Sioned wore their most charming aspects—a dead giveaway to anyone who knew them well. Fortunately, Miyon did not, and accepted their welcoming smiles as if he were returning in triumph to his own keep.

Feylin whispered as much to Walvis, who nodded. “He’d certainly
like
Stronghold for his own. I remember the first time he was here, years ago, he inspected things as if making mental notes on what he’d change when he took possession. Feylin, my love, did you have to poke me so hard?”

She reached an inconspicuous hand to rub his side. “Sorry. But you
will
be provoking. Jahnavi’s grown—as usual! And Sionell looks lovely, doesn’t she?”

“Worried,” he said, blue eyes narrowing.

“Probably about Talya,” Feylin responded, not believing it. “I wish she wasn’t too young to make the journey from Tiglath.”

“We’ll go inflict ourselves on them for the summer. But I’m surprised Ell didn’t stay behind with her.”

“She must have had an excellent reason for coming along.”

“And you’ll have it out of her before dusk,” Walvis murmured. “Tallain’s a smart boy—you notice there’s a soldier of his for every one of Miyon’s? He’s taking no chance that there’s a Merida in the group.”

The very mention of the Desert’s enemies sent sparks into Feylin’s eyes. Walvis saw it and tickled her nape with the end of her braid.

“Settle down and smile,” he advised. “They’ll be up here in a moment, and Jahnavi will think you’re angry with him for not writing more often.”

“Well, I am.” But she smoothed her expression just the same.

Rohan and Sioned descended exactly one step to show respect for a fellow prince, spoke formal words of welcome, and gave the traditional wine cup which Feylin wished could have been laced with poison. Pol was duly greeted, then Andry. Protocol did not permit the introduction of vassals, not even the powerful Lord of Radzyn Keep, but Feylin almost succeeded in hiding a grin as Miyon recognized her husband. At barely nineteen, Walvis had commanded the Desert forces that had defeated the Merida in 704, and his prowess as a warrior was well known. Twenty-four years had put a little gray into his hair and beard, but had also added mature muscle and not a coinweight of excess flesh. There was a very simple reason for this: Remagev, aside from its fine goats and glass ingots, also produced soldiers trained personally and superbly by Walvis. And Miyon knew it.

Tallain had mounted the steps behind the Cunaxan prince, Riyan at his side. Sionell and Jahnavi were next, Chayla and Rohannon firmly in hand. But before Feylin and Walvis could greet their own offspring, the twins had broken free and were clambering all over Maarken and Hollis. The strict formality of the occasion was thus happily broken, and even Miyon chuckled.

It was then that Feylin saw the girl. Wearied by the long ride, looking as fragile as a windblown flower, still she was exquisite. Beneath a soft cap that protected her from the hot spring sun tumbled masses of pale golden hair, each strand a separate curl like spun sunlight. A delicate profile was turned away from the warm and easy welcomes exchanged between friends and family; the girl bit her lip as she was utterly ignored.

Sionell drew back from her father’s embrace and turned, beckoning the girl up the steps. “This is Lady Meiglan of Gracine Manor. Meiglan, come meet my parents, Lord Walvis and Lady Feylin.”

“I—I’m honored to meet you, my lord, my lady,” the girl whispered.

“Welcome to Stronghold, my dear,” Walvis said kindly.

Feylin pressed the girl’s trembling, gloved hand. Her own Sionell looked as if she could ride another four days without feeling it, but this frail child ought to be tucked up in bed until tomorrow morning. “It’s a long journey through the Desert from Tiglath—you must be exhausted.”

“I am, a little,” she admitted.

“You can go upstairs as soon as you’ve met their graces,” Sionell said.

The girl shrank back, eyes lifting at last. They were velvety brown; with her golden coloring and dark eyes she resembled nothing so much as a terrified fawn. “Oh, no, please—not now, my lady!”

“Oh, come,” Sionell encouraged with a bracing smile, “whatever you’ve heard about the High Prince’s passion for dragons, he hasn’t yet turned into one!”

“And neither,” said Pol from behind Meiglan’s shoulder, “have I.”

The girl turned. Feylin could not see her face, but suddenly she saw Pol as a stranger must: a creature fashioned of sunlight. It glowed on his fair head, lit the planes and angles of his face, glinted off the tiny silver wreaths of Princemarch embroidered around the throat of his violet tunic, was outshone by his quick smile.

“Here you are at last,” he said to Sionell. “But I’m disappointed. You didn’t bring Talya with you.”

“I see she managed to enchant you when you met her at Feruche,” Sionell said with a smile. “But she’s much too little for such a long trip, Pol.”

“You look none the worse for it. Marriage and motherhood suit you perfectly, Ell. You’ve never been prettier.”

Crumbs from the loaf, Feylin thought, exchanging a glance with Walvis, and was grateful that their daughter had never deluded herself into believing she could make a meal of them.

Sionell thanked him and gracefully introduced Meiglan. The girl said nothing as Pol bent over her wrist and welcomed her; Feylin kept one eye on him and the other on Sionell, and saw the same absolute self-possession in each. But there was something wrong here. She could sense it in every nerve.

Pol held Meiglan’s hand between his, leaning over her solicitously. “Allow me to escort you out of this heat.”

She nodded wordlessly and they went into the cool dimness of the foyer. An instant later Chayla and Rohannon clambered up Pol’s legs, nearly toppling him. Having greeted and been made much of by everyone else, they now claimed their fair share of Pol’s attention. He knelt to hug them, demanding to know what kind of trouble they had caused at Tiglath. Chayla gave an indignant squeal and Rohannon applied to Meiglan for witness that they had behaved perfectly.

At last the girl smiled. She bent slightly and murmured something Feylin didn’t quite hear. Rohannon told Pol, “See? Lady Meiglan says so. We went to bed on time and we were very good and didn’t bother anybody. Talya was the one who kept waking everybody up—and Lady Meiglan, that night she had her dream.”

The girl’s cheeks turned scarlet and her whole body stiffened. A frown quirked Sionell’s brows. And the sudden crack of Prince Miyon’s voice through the foyer shocked everyone so much that after his first word, all was silence.

“Meiglan! Why are you still here? You’re filthy. Go upstairs at once!”

She cringed back, as white-faced now as she had been crimson a moment before. Chayla and Rohannon actually jumped. Pol stood, a flash of irritation swiftly banished from his eyes with obvious effort. Before he could say anything, Sionell stepped smoothly into the breach.

“It’s my fault for lingering, your grace. After that long ride the thought of all those stairs is a little daunting.” She distributed smiles all around, then took Meiglan’s arm and drew her toward Rohan and Sioned. The girl stumbled slightly, frozen with terror that made her look even more like a frightened fawn. “May I present Lady Meiglan of Gracine Manor to your graces? And I must apologize again, Prince Miyon, for not allowing you the introduction of your daughter.”

Rohan and Sioned were too experienced to show any startlement, and calmly made the girl welcome. Pol was younger. For an instant he simply appeared stunned.

Usually Feylin found people about half as interesting as dragons. But she could add up words and looks as well as statistics, and the sum made little Lady Meiglan very interesting indeed. She saw the girl upstairs and into her chamber with her maid in attendance, then firmly claimed her daughter’s arm and walked her down the long hallway toward her own rooms.

“Your explanation,” Feylin said. “Now.”

“You’re not going to like it,” Sionell murmured.

“I already don’t like it.”

Sionell shrugged and went to a little alcove overlooking the bustle of the courtyard. The third-floor corridor was deserted but for the guard near the stairs; all the servants were busy fetching and carrying down below. Seating herself on a low wooden bench carved with dragons, she looked up at her mother. “As nearly as I can tell, Miyon has a very interesting plot going.”

“And that child has something to do with it?”

Sionell gave a quiet sigh. “She has everything to do with it.”

When her explanation was over, Feylin gave a low whistle between her teeth. “My, my,” she said. “How did I ever come to have such a clever daughter?”

 

 

Sionell went down early to the Great Hall. The servants, still setting the tables, gave her a few curious glances, and she busied herself with the flowers as an excuse for being there.

Early evening light shone through the window wall onto silver from Fessenden, crystal from Firon, and delicate ceramic plates from Kierst. All very impressive, Sionell thought sourly. Rohan hadn’t missed a trick.

Neither had Miyon. Pol already felt sorry for Meiglan—who, when Sionell had visited her briefly a little while ago, was still in partial shock at seeing the man from her dream made real. But Miyon had not reckoned on Sionell, who was determined that Meiglan would
not
present Pol with a lonely little figure trembling in a corner.

“I can’t make her clever,” she had explained to her mother, “and I can’t turn her into a sparkling wit. But nobody could look pathetic partnered at dinner or in dancing by Tallain or Maarken or Riyan.”

She consulted the servants about the seating plan at the high table and was appalled to discover that no order had been given to put Meiglan there.

“Set another place at once,” she said.

“But, my lady, I’ve had no word from her grace—”

“With all that her grace has to do, it’s not surprising that it slipped her mind, is it? Please see to the extra place immediately.”

When the squires arrived—Arlis, Edrel, and her own brother Jahnavi would be serving the high table tonight—she gave specific instructions about who was to be seated where. They blinked a little at her rearrangements, but only Jahnavi drew her aside and leveled their father’s piercing blue eyes on her.

“I know you, Ell,” he said flatly. “You’re up to something.”

“Don’t be silly. Nobody thought to seat Meiglan at the high table.”

He made a face. “Somebody’s heard what a charming dinner partner she is.”

“And don’t be nasty, either. Or a snob. She can’t help it if she’s shy.”

“There’s shy—and then there’s boring. All right, all right,” he said hastily as her brows rushed together in a frown. “But I still say it’s a dirty trick to foist her off on Riyan and your own poor husband for the evening.”

“She knows them well enough to talk to them. And with her father halfway down the table, she might even relax and enjoy herself.”

“Don’t make any bets. It took her all that time at Tiglath to say six words at meals. And this is Stronghold. I mean, look at the place.”

Sionell was familiar with its elegance and splendor, but to Meiglan this castle would seem stupendous. Sionell fussed with the flowers, telling herself that at least the girl would not be cowering all alone at one of the lower tables. And with distance between her and her father, at a table populated by people she already knew, Miyon could not possibly humiliate her.

Sionell had reckoned without Miyon’s grasp of strategy. He totally ignored his daughter all during the meal. It was as if she did not exist, sitting between Tallain and Riyan in her soft pink gown with its high lace collar. Sionell wore a vibrant shade of green that not even Sioned could wear; the bold coloring and dark red hair bequeathed by Feylin allowed her more vivid hues than Sioned’s fire-gold looks could support. But she knew the instant she saw Meiglan that the green gown had been a mistake. More delicate and fawnlike than ever, she made Sionell feel like a plow-elk.

But if Miyon had decided that his daughter did not exist, Pol was fully aware of the fact; frequent glances down to her end of the table proved it. He had to lean over his plate to catch sight of her. Sionell began to wonder if it had been adequately impressed on him exactly who the girl was.

“He must know she’s impossible,” Feylin had said that afternoon.

“He’s not stupid, Mother. But no one must
tell
him she’s impossible, or he’ll think up a dozen reasons why she isn’t. I can think of one right now—that an alliance would end the disharmony between the Desert and Cunaxa. Miyon could scarcely continue to support the Merida if his daughter is Pol’s wife.”

Pol’s wife.
The words echoed in her mind as she intercepted yet another glance from those blue-green eyes. She smiled and fingered the sapphires around her neck—present at Antalya’s birth—as if thanking him once more for them. But he barely noticed.

Tallain, however, did. “You’re wasting your time, my love,” he whispered.

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s impossible to distract a man from the source of his distraction.” Tallain shook his head. “He’s being painfully obvious about it, isn’t he?”

“Disgustingly so.” She signaled Jahnavi to serve her another pastry.

“Don’t worry. She’s lovely, of course, but Pol isn’t a fool.”

“Most men are fools when it comes to such things.” She gave him a sidelong smile. “You certainly were.”

“I still am. And you know it. Shall we be foolish together and shatter precedent by dancing only with each other instead of everybody else?”

“Oh, you’ll have to lead poor Meiglan out once or twice to start her off. If Chay or even Maarken is the first to ask her, she’ll faint with the shock.”