Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire (60 page)

He conjured answering Fire on a large stone to his right. The area was well illuminated now, light seeping into the craggy stone face of the canyon mouth. How many days since he rode here with his oh-so-clever plan for Meiglan in mind? He felt a hundred years older now. Knowledge had changed him.

So had Mireva. He shied away from that memory, and the need for a cleansing image sent his thoughts to Meiglan. It was surprising to realize that she, too, had changed him with her trust and faith. She asked nothing, demanded nothing—because in her eyes he was already everything that could protect and cherish her, everything he had always wanted to be: a true prince and Sunrunner; powerful, strong, and wise. Always before when he had looked at a woman and wondered what it might be like to have her as his wife, he had considered the issue only in terms of himself.
His
wife,
his
Choice,
his
marriage—as if he was the only one involved. With Meiglan, the only way he could explain it to himself was that when he looked at her, he wanted to be
her
husband.

There was a serenity in that, unexpected and welcome, a sureness of heart that matched his faith in his power. Not arrogance, not vainglory, but simple awareness that whatever must be done, he had the strength to do it. So he faced Ruval with unfeigned serenity, waiting.

“The smart thing to do would be to kill me where I stand,” Ruval said. “Or have one of them do it for you.” He gestured toward their audience, standing nearby beside their horses, forming a rough semicircle.

Pol nodded agreement.

“But you’re not smart, Pol. You’re honorable.” He sneered the word.

“I wouldn’t want to disappoint anyone.” Pol hesitated slightly. “You say Roelstra was your grandfather, Ianthe your mother. What proof can you offer?”

Ruval’s face betrayed surprise. He had not been expecting a challenge of this nature at this late date. He took a small gold coin from one pocket, and tossed it at Pol. “You’ll recognize my grandsire’s face.”

Holding it between thumb and forefinger, he asked in honest amazement, “Do you seriously expect me to compare profiles?”

The coin sprouted tiny, cold flames. In them Pol saw a roomful of gold lit by a single torch held high by a very beautiful, very pregnant woman. His heart stopped, then raced: Ianthe.

“A small trick,” Ruval said negligently as the flames flickered out. “But I’m sure you’re aware that such a memory could only be conjured by one who was there to see it. Who else would Princess Ianthe show her gold to but her eldest son? Gold your father provided in exchange for
dranath
to cure the Plague.”

Pol struggled to recover from stunned astonishment. The display had been impressive, not only in its casual power but in its effect on him: his first and probably only sight of his mother. Pregnant. Carrying
him.
His fingers felt welded to the coin, even though the flames had held no heat.

“Satisfied?” Ruval demanded.

“I—” He cleared his throat. Ruval had made it all too easy to put the right tremor into his voice. “Is there anything that will content you other than this battle?”

His half-brother looked interested. “What did you have in mind?”

“Land. A castle. Perhaps Feruche, which your brother wanted enough to die for—”

“You’re that frightened of me?” Ruval laughed. “Oh, I’ll have Feruche, all right. And Dragon’s Rest and everything else you own—especially Castle Crag.”

“And if I refuse this battle?”

“Back down in front of all these people?”

“You have no army, now that Chiana is out of the way. You’d lose a war.”

“Andry used the more benevolent
ros’salath
at Dragon’s Rest. Make war, or even attempt to kill me here with treachery, and I’ll show you its true power.”

Pol bit his lip and was sincerely glad that his cousin was absent tonight. Evidently the Star Scroll had not taught him the fatal version. “I agreed to meet you here—I didn’t accept formal challenge.”

“I noticed that in your wording,” Ruval commented. “Allow me to convince you. If you refuse, I’ll reveal the Desert’s most cherished secret.”

The blood froze in his veins. “And that might be?”

“Gold.” He waved to the canyon behind them. “Unlimited, secret gold. Dragon gold! I know about Skybowl. In the memory of that coin is the smelter there. Accept my challenge, Pol, or Miyon and Barig will soon know the truth—and you’d have to kill them to keep them from spreading the knowledge to every other princedom.”

“It seems I have no choice.” He hid his relief and tossed the coin back at Ruval with what he hoped was a good show of false bravado.

“None whatsoever,” Ruval replied cheerfully.

Pol pulled his shoulders straight and asked, “Shall we settle on the rules for the
ricsina?
”

Ruval’s brows arched. “So you
have
read the Star Scroll.”

“Certainly. Haven’t you?”

“As much as Mireva could steal, from Andry’s copy. Where is he, by the way?”

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not. But he would have enjoyed watching you blunder around with spells you don’t understand. You’re not his favorite person.”

“Granted. Well, shall we begin?”

“All Elements,” Ruval said briskly. “And the two of us only. No other people. I don’t need anyone else.” He smiled. “You can’t win, you know. There are things about sorcery that can kill you if you use them incorrectly.”

Pol glanced away. “Agreed,” he whispered.

“I also claim no weapons, no physical touch.”

He didn’t bother to hide his chagrin; there were several knives about his person that would have been useful if that rule had not been invoked. “I didn’t expect an honest battle from you. But you’re the one who can’t win. Princemarch is mine, and you’re going to die.”

“I’ll write that on a slip of parchment and burn it in the oratory at Castle Crag in your memory,” Ruval grinned.

Pol ignored the taunt. “What about
dranath?
”

“What about it?”

“Do you need it?”

“Do
you?
”

For answer, Pol unhooked his father’s wineskin from his belt, unstoppered it, and deliberately upended it. The dark liquid charged with power-enhancing drug spilled onto the sand.

He heard a soft gasp behind him—his mother, probably. Perhaps it was a foolish gesture, but it was one he had to make. Ruval was responding quite nicely so far. Rejection of
dranath
would not only further encourage belief in his weakness and stupidity, but it would also signify something more important: he was Sunrunner, not sorcerer. The stray thought teased at him that Andry would approve. Grudgingly.

“That leaves only the shielding,” he said.

“Impossible. Tradition calls for three on each side. I have no one but myself. I
need
no one but myself to kill you.”

“My mother, the High Princess, constructed one before.”

“She knows nothing,” Ruval scoffed.

“Yet she managed it.”

“No. I do
not
agree.”

Pol made his shrug one of disappointment; he hadn’t really expected to win that point. “Yet I expect you
will
agree to the use of the Unreal.”

“Oh, so you think to terrify me with horrible visions?” Ruval’s good humor returned. “By all means! It should be interesting. If we’re agreed, then call forward witnesses. Your father, Miyon, and Barig will do.”

Pol did so, as if submitting to Ruval’s authority. When the three stood near him, he listed the conditions of battle in a slightly hoarse voice. Rohan’s carefully composed expression was belied by the dark concern in his eyes; Miyon seethed with a silent, angry demand that Ruval emerge the victor; Barig simply stared, understanding perhaps four words in ten. But he hadn’t the temerity to ask for a lengthy explanation.

“The conditions are acceptable to both of us,” Pol said at last. “If any of them are broken, the violator’s claim is forefeit. Punishment is your responsibility, as witnesses.”

“Understood,” Miyon snapped. “Get on with it.”

Ruval grinned at him. “Why, your grace! So eager to see your guards recruit win? Or do you expect me to lose?”

The Cunaxan looked ready to strangle him. He turned on his heel and strode back to his horse.

Barig said nervously, “As my prince’s cousin and representative, I’ll keep a damned sharp eye on the proceedings.”

Pol appreciated his situation—and his bluster that tried to hide almost total incomprehension. “We thank your lordship for the assurances.”

“And trust in your perceptions,” Ruval added mockingly.

Rohan said nothing until Barig had returned to the group. Then he murmured, “You’ll die tonight, Ruval—one way or another.”

“Have you the stomach to kill the son of the woman who bore your child?”

Pol tensed in spite of himself. Rohan only lifted one brow.

“I saw him that night,” Ruval went on. “Just after he was born. My last brother in his cradle where he burned to death.”

“Such touching family sentiment is rather unexpected,” Pol made himself remark.

“When I’ve finished with you, I’ll settle with your mother—who killed mine.” He glared at Rohan. “
You
I’ll leave alive long enough to watch the death of the
faradhi
bitch who also murdered your son.”

“Had Ianthe raised him, he would not have
been
my son,” Rohan replied.

Pol swallowed hard. There was the center of it, he thought. And he was passionately grateful for Sioned’s courage. He no longer cared whether or not she had been the one to kill Ianthe. He’d have to live through this, if only to tell his mother how deeply he loved her.

Rohan left them. Pol turned to Ruval and drew in a deep breath. He reached into his pocket, fingering a little golden talisman, remembering the wise old Sunrunner who had given it to him. The Star Scroll had taught him many things today—most of which he hoped he wouldn’t have to use. He must defeat Ruval as a Sunrunner, not a sorcerer. Not just for symbolism’s sake, but for his own. He was the son of Rohan and Sioned, not the scion of
diarmadh’im.
Yet the techniques perfected by his ancestors chattered in his mind, as if words written on parchment were speaking to him. They advised this spell or that, debated the merits of each, proposed new variations to fit the circumstances. But in a worried undertone a woman warned of danger. Her voice was his mother’s and Lady Andrade’s and Tobin’s, and nervous fancy told him that some part of it was Lady Merisel who had written the words of the Star Scroll. She had preserved perilous knowledge and then hidden it away. Why? The scholar’s fatal reluctance to let any learning disappear? Or something else?

Likely he would soon use that learning to kill his own half-brother. He looked into Ruval’s eyes, and it was no blood-bond or sentiment between siblings that revulsed him from the inevitable. It was a terrible, will-destroying sadness. His princedom, his place, even his life, had been won with other people’s bloody deaths: Ianthe and Roelstra, the pretender Masul, Segev, Marron, and now Ruval. What made him worth so much killing?

But then he remembered Sorin, and the anger swelled in him. Those others had died mortal enemies; Sorin had been murdered defending him. For Sorin he would win this battle. For his mother, who had risked everything for him. And for his father.

He held Ruval’s gaze with his own, seeing not his brother but the Enemy, all Enemies.

“We begin,” he said.

A
ndry stood on the top step, looking down into the cellars. He told himself he was not afraid of Mireva. He also knew this was at least a partial lie. It wasn’t what she might do—Rohan’s gambit with the steel wire had all but removed that fear. It was what he might learn from her.

Secrets more deadly than those of the Star Scroll. Ways of power that, once learned, could pollute everything he was. Truths that might mean his eventual defeat.

Knowledge of any kind being power, he finally descended the stairs into the cool dimness. In chambers to his left were the enormous cisterns that held Stronghold’s water supply—nearly overflowing this year, ensuring plenty of water for years to come. The grotto spring provided the main supply, but Andry could remember times in his childhood when it had nearly dried up. Even if it turned to sand for several years, Stronghold would still be awash in water, kept fresh by the addition of herbs that also gave it a clean, distinctive taste. It was one of the small things he missed at Goddess Keep, the subtle tingle of this water on his tongue.

He paused in a doorway to view the massive cisterns for what he fully expected would be the last time, then continued through the maze of crates, excess furniture, rolled-up carpets, and other stored items to Mireva’s cell. Along the way part of his mind busied itself with contingency plans: how many of Radzyn’s people could be housed at Stronghold when—and if—the castle fell? How many could the cisterns keep alive, and for how long? If Stronghold was taken as well, was there a way to deprive the invaders of this precious bounty of water in the Desert?

He believed in his vision as if it was already historical fact. He had thought that perhaps it would come to pass this spring. But Radzyn still stood. He would detour there on his way out of his uncle’s princedom. He desperately needed to see it whole and proud on its seaside cliffs. One last time.

There was a cellar below this one, so protected from the blazing heat that ice could be made within it. He remembered sneaking in with Sorin when they were children, scraping enough dry frost for good approximations of snowballs. He remembered so much . . . playing at dragons, learning to ride, trying bows that drew too much weight for little boys, causing dreadful mischief and never being able to talk their way out of it, taking seriously old Myrdal’s bedtime tales of secret passageways and turning half the castle inside out before Chay caught them, and Sorin being unable to talk them out of
that
one, too. . . .