Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire (44 page)

But not distraction enough. Turning from the windows, he walked the length of his bedchamber again, soft carpet and then chill stone beneath his bare feet as he made the circuit over and over. His thoughts circled, too: Andry, Marron, Ruval, the dead Sunrunner in Gilad, Miyon, dragons, Meiglan—especially Meiglan.

She was providing exactly the distraction her father had intended. Pol muttered a lurid curse, but whether it was directed at Miyon or himself, he wasn’t sure. He’d thought to trap everyone else into thinking him in love with the girl. But by now he was beginning to think it was himself he had trapped.

She’d be gone soon, temptation with her, and at the
Rialla
this summer he’d find a woman more to his taste. Older, more self-assured, capable of being High Princess. Beautiful, of course, but smart and clever as well. Someone like Sionell had turned out to be.

And yet. . . . He could not imagine beauty more compelling than Meiglan’s when she stood before her
fenath,
swaying gracefully back and forth as she plucked magic from the strings.

Just as her father had intended.

Pol stripped off his trousers and underwear and flung himself across the bed.
Clever prince,
he accused in disgust. He ought to be thinking about the challenge to his power that Ruval would surely make in the next day or two. Instead he was conforming to plan by fretting over Meggie. There, he had even given her the tender nickname. He doused the candles with a thought and determinedly shut his eyes. He’d be no good to himself or anyone else if he didn’t get some sleep. He needed a clear head tomorrow.

There was a whisper of lace and silk in the darkness, barely audible above the splash of the fountain below, and a faint fragrance he recognized at once. He sat straight up in bed, quickly hauling the sheet around his naked body, and heard her catch her breath.

“No—please, my lord—no light!”

“Meiglan? What are you doing here?”

“I—I made them let me in,” she breathed, gliding closer to the bed, a slender drifting shadow hinted at by moonlight.

“They told me you were sleeping. Surely you ought to—” He could hardly believe her women would allow her out of her bedchamber, let alone into his.

“I had to see you! I had to be near you—I’m so frightened, my lord, it’s all been so terrible, this whole day—”

“It’s all right now, Meiglan. Nothing to be afraid of.”

“Not here,” she said softly. “I feel safe with you.”

Pol drew in a shaky breath. Knowing he should not, that more definite sight of her would be dangerous, he gestured the bedside candle into being. Her whole body flinched and he automatically reached for her hand. It was small and chill in his palm. And he’d been right; the candle was a mistake. She wore a nightdress with a pale silk bedrobe over it and dark lace over her hair. She shifted her head and the veil slid to the floor. Her golden curls seemed to have a luminescence all their own, and their perfume was intoxicating. She took a step closer and he began to feel dizzy.

“You came to me at Tiglath,” she breathed, trembling. “Sent by the Goddess in a dream. I didn’t know until I came here—but it was you, even to your rings.” She gestured to the moonstone that had been Lady Andrade’s, the amethyst of Princemarch. “You’re
faradhi,
my lord. Tell me what my dream meant. Please.”

“I-I don’t know.” He cleared his throat and let go of her hand.
She
must be the dream. This wasn’t possible. He felt strange, light-headed, his whole body tingling but not in the usual manner of desire. “Meiglan—”

“Let me stay a while,” she begged. “Just until I’m not so frightened.”

He nodded, and she sat at the foot of the bed—out of reach, for which he was grateful. Goddess, she was magic itself by candlelight, all gold hair and dark eyes and cloud-pale skin. She must know that. Why else would she be here? He felt betrayed by his own perceptions, furious that he had been so utterly wrong about her. Her father had planned this, too, and Meiglan was about as innocent as a harborside whore.

One way to be sure.

He got hold of her hand again and eased toward her across the bed. Memories of other seductions tumbled through him—there had not been as many women as Rialt teased him about, but there had been enough. And there had been Morwenna. Dear, lusty, laughing, wry Morwenna, who had come to him in the guise of the Goddess that hadn’t fooled him for an instant, informing him that she had taken it upon herself to correct any bad habits he might have learned.

Teach him she had. He stroked the back of Meiglan’s palm, turned it over to place a kiss in its hollow. With his other hand he untied the loose knot of her nightdress and before long had it off her shoulders. She was quivering, eyes closed, head tilting slightly back to expose the delicate line of her throat. An open invitation for his lips, he noted with a tight smile. She was no more a virgin than Morwenna, and he would prove it to himself and be rid of the aching tenderness caused by her supposed vulnerability.

But he was finding it difficult to breathe. The closer he got to her, the more his head spun. She lay back across the bed, her fingers locked with his, the golden cloud of her hair spread over white silk sheets. Her body was curving and slender and the only difference in color between her skin and the silk she lay upon was the faintest glow of rose, teasing at his
faradhi
senses.

Pol lowered himself half-across her, looked down into her face that seemed hazy in the soft fog of her incredible hair. He buried his lips in the curve of her shoulder. She gave a soft cry that was his name as his knee parted her thighs. Head reeling, he took her mouth, not caring anymore that he was supposed to be doing this, that she had come here with this in mind. He was drunk with her face and form and scent, his senses all awry, as if he’d plunged into some boiling lake whose water seeped into his blood through his skin, depths where there was no air to breathe and he would drown—and not give a damn about the death.

Neither his tastes nor his vices included raping little girls. But this was no child-woman whose body arched against his, no virgin whose nails dug into his back and buttocks, no inexperienced innocent whose kisses matched his in passion.

“Find out what a woman wants,”
Morwenna had instructed.
“How she likes to be touched. Where your touch will do the most good! Be responsive to her mood—sometimes, just as will be true of you, she won’t be certain which path she’ll want to take. This is especially so if she’s not experienced. But finding out can be very pleasurable!”

Meiglan knew exactly what she wanted and how she wanted it. Pol gave it to her—quickly, fiercely, without caution or finesse or caring about anything other than his lust.

When he was done, he lay on his back and stared up at the bed curtains. Bitterness like Sunrunner’s Fire seared his pride. Himself so clever, he mocked, and she so innocent. He had discovered the truth of her, and the disappointment and shame burned his heart to ashes.

“Now . . . now I am yours,” she whispered beside him.

He turned his head and saw the sweet joy illuminating her face. The dizziness increased. False, all of her false, some part of him repeated, and now that he was not touching her he could hear that voice again. He rose and went to the windows. The night air froze the sweat on his naked skin.

“My lord?” Her voice was soft, hesitant, half-fearful again. “Have I displeased you?”

Pol clenched his fists. Moonlight and the cool breeze washed him in pale silver, and he shivered. “Why would you think that?”

“I-I know nothing of the ways of a man after—after. . . .”

He spun around. “Liar!” he hissed. “Who are you really? Not that timid frightened child you’ve been at such pains to show me! Who are you?”

“My lord—why are you angry?” She sat up, her hair tumbling around her, clutching the sheet to her breasts. One hand stretched out, pleading with him. Her eyes were like two black hollows in her face, filled with night.

“What’s the plan now?” he demanded in a fury of betrayal and wounded pride. “Claim that I raped you, so your father can invoke the law?
You
were the one who came to
me,
my lady! Who’d listen to a rape charge from a woman who slinks into a man’s bedroom dressed like a hired whore?”

She gasped and cringed back. “Why are you being so cruel?” she breathed. “I thought you w-wanted me—”

“I want you to get out. Now.” He stayed where he was in the clean moonlight, knowing that if he approached her he would probably strike her. Besides, there was a better repayment. In silken tones he said, “I doubt your father will be happy with your failure.”

“Oh, no! Please don’t tell my father about this! He’d kill me!”

Pol nodded. “Yes, I think he might.”

“My lord—oh, Pol, please, you must protect me from him—”

He laughed aloud. “You can’t be serious! Looking to me for protection? Is there no limit to you?”

She gave a terrified sob. He turned his back and stared sightlessly down at the fountain.

At length she stopped crying, and he heard the rustle of her discarded nightdress. “My lord?” she asked in a small voice. “Will you at least help me return to my chambers without—without anyone seeing me? I could not bear the shame.”

“A little late for that, isn’t it?” he snapped. But a lack of witnesses was to his advantage, as well. In fact, he had been wondering why no one had burst in on them yet. Perhaps Miyon had counted on his being so besotted that one taste of Meiglan’s sweet white flesh would bring a formal Choice, in which case witnesses to a “rape” would be unnecessary.

He said, “Very well. I’ll make sure—”

He forgot what he’d been about to say as a wave of nausea swept over him. He staggered back against the window frame, barely hearing Meiglan’s cry of his name. Colors whirled all around him, catching him up in their brilliant power, drawing him helplessly along thick ropes of woven light far from Stronghold.

O
stvel was beyond exhaustion. This morning he had awakened from a brief rest—more like a dead faint—to find abused muscles stiff, his very bones bruised. The damp spring night had put an ache into every joint in his body, but the pain was so familiar by now that it was as if he had never felt anything else. Oddly enough, his head no longer swam with the thick confusion of weariness. Everything had become clear as Fironese crystal. All considerations of trusting or not trusting Andry, all political permutations of an army’s march on the palace, all intricate webs of motive and reason and responsibility had resolved into a very simple thing. It was so obvious, really. He must ride to Dragon’s Rest. He supposed he was lucky he still had some idea why.

The two guards, Chandar and Jofra, were doing better than he. But then, they were younger. Donato had looked awful during the whole journey—which might have been three days or three years by now, for all Ostvel knew. The Sunrunner had struggled bravely but uselessly against his reaction to crossing water. Ostvel had a vague memory of holding his friend’s head over the side of the boat as Donato vomited and then collapsed in groaning misery. The Faolain’s swift current had taken them downstream faster than Ostvel had calculated, and they had almost missed the landing. Still, any time gained had been offset by the difficulties of getting Donato fit to sit a horse. They had ended by having him ride pillion until noon, which had slowed them down even more. But then he had declared himself equal to holding the reins instead of merely getting a mindless grip on Jofra’s belt. And they had been riding ever since, with stops only for a little food, a few moments’ rest, and fresh horses.

These were more difficult to find than Ostvel had thought. Though as lord of Castle Crag and former Regent of Princemarch he could commandeer any horse he chose, he knew animals of better quality would be forthcoming if money were offered as well. He’d been in luck with the first change, for the minor
athri
whose possessions included the landing had an eye for good horseflesh. But inspection of another holding’s stables the next day had produced nothing worth riding, let alone risking a princedom on.

He had been lucky again this afternoon, finding four sturdy mountain ponies perfect for the approach to Dragon’s Rest he had in mind. It had taken the greater part of his purse to secure them, their owner being naturally suspicious of a man he’d never even heard of, but Ostvel had not allowed Jofra to convince the man with his sword. Especially not after the news that a great many horses and soldiers had been seen passing that way only the previous night.

“We’re not too far behind them, then,” Ostvel had sighed as they rode off. “They should get there by dark. And so will we.”

They could not enter the valley the usual way. They must go up over the hills and approach from the western flank. And now, at midnight, when Ostvel was barely conscious and sodden with weariness, he reined in very suddenly at the sight of the palace down below him.

“All serene,” Jofra muttered. “Shall we ride down and warn them, my lord?”

Ostvel rubbed his throbbing temples and upended his water skin over his head to wake himself up. The shock of cold water made him shiver. But it did not entirely clear his head. Now that his simple goal had been reached, his mind infuriatingly muddled again. The hillside wood was protection from a chill breeze, but the darkness felt thick and menacing.

“Too serene,” Chandar said, frowning.

“Donato? Donato!”

The Sunrunner jerked upright in his saddle and mumbled something. He looked worse than Ostvel felt.

“Wake up, man. Tell us what you see down there and at the valley entrance.”