Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire (65 page)

The stones had a dark glitter, reflecting his thoughts. Ten rings indicating greater rank and power than any other Sunrunner—yet he was helpless to prevent the slaughter foreseen in his visions.

His fists clenched. He would not be helpless; he refused to be. He must strive and struggle, with no one to understand fully why he did what he did. They wouldn’t believe him even if he explained. Why couldn’t they trust in him?

In the aftermath of his victory over Ruval, Pol had done exactly as he pleased. He hadn’t waited until the
Rialla
to marry Meiglan—but he had waited until Andry had left Stronghold, so that other Sunrunners and Rohan would be the ones to preside over the ceremony. As for Miyon, it was rumored that Rohan had given him one hellacious lecture in private, but had let him go free. Andry clenched his fists in his bitterness. The Cunaxan prince had given aid and opportunity to Ruval and his brother who had killed Sorin—and yet Rohan had let him go free.

Pol had also gotten his way over trade. Miyon could scarcely do otherwise than agree to everything proposed regarding Cunaxa, Tiglath, and Feruche, which was now officially Riyan’s. As was Ruala. Their children would be sorcerers—and out of Andry’s reach.

But there were plenty of others he could find and eliminate. That was why he was secretly in Princemarch.

Pol had even done the seemingly impossible: dragons had hatched in the caves at Rivenrock for the first time in twenty-seven years. Somehow, between the communication established with the dragonsire—whom Pol had named Azhdeen, “dragon brother,” in a display of nauseating conceit—and the cleansing of the canyon with Sunrunner’s Fire, the dragons had decided to use the caves there again. Feylin had been ecstatic, of course, when fully one hundred and eighty-nine hatchlings had flown from Rivenrock, Feruche, and elsewhere. The total dragon population was over three hundred and fifty. Along with Pol’s princedom, dragons were secure. More accolades accrued to Pol’s name, more respect for his gifts and his power.

Andry knew that none of it mattered. Not compared to what was to come.

Chiana had been excused her folly. She truly had been ensorcelled, unlike Miyon, who had merely claimed to be. Andry remembered watching her hysterical tears through Donato’s unwilling eyes as she faced Ostvel at Dragon’s Rest and bleated her innocence. Rohan had chosen not to punish her—but neither she nor Miyon would be able to spit without his being notified of it. Such was the power of the High Prince, Andry told himself acidly.

Geir of Waes had died, some said from one of his own archer’s arrows. No one spared him another thought. But Chiana and Halian would not have the giving of Waes to another
athri.
Instead, it was to be organized as a free city, along the lines of Andrade’s own ancestral holding of Catha Freehold. The latter had reverted to Syr at her father’s death; Waes, having now no lord at all, would be chartered as a free city until and unless Rohan decided otherwise. Such was the power of the High Prince.

Thought of Syr brought a momentary softening to his face. Princess Gemma had that summer given Prince Tilal another son, and had asked Tobin’s permission to Name the boy Sorin. He was a lively child, fair-haired and gray-eyed; Andry had made a special trip to High Kirat to see him after the
Rialla.
The detour had also afforded him means to pretend he was on his way back to Goddess Keep. He had sent the majority of his party there, and himself headed into the Veresch.

This was one of the few nights he hadn’t slept out in the open. With gloves hiding his rings and armbands, and riding a rather undistinguished horse, he had gone mostly unnoticed. Strangers were always remarked on in the remoteness of the mountains, but as long as his hands were hidden and he made no verbal slips, who would know that it was the Lord of Goddess Keep who traveled by? And who would credit that a man of such exalted rank would be in the Veresch at all?

Nialdan and Valeda, his only companions, were similarly disguised. She had insisted that they find an inn that night, for Nialdan was sniffling in the first stages of a head cold. Andry was not fooled; she wanted to bed him in hopes of another child, even though Chayly wasn’t even a year old yet. He had gently but firmly discouraged her at his door this evening—but now he wished he’d given in. It was cold and very dark and he was alone.

He found a few wood chips to stoke the brazier, and as he replaced its lid he stared at the pattern shining crimson and gold through the iron. Butterfly wings, like lace.

Alasen had been choosing lace veils when he’d found her at Castle Crag.

The day Mireva’s corpse had burned to cinders on the steps of Stronghold, Andry used the sunshine streaming through the gardens to travel to Castle Crag. Alasen was alone. She knelt on the carpet of her bedchamber, sunlight glinting off gold and silver threads woven through some of the dozens of veils billowing around her. She lifted one to the sunshine, a fragile creation of blossom-pink and leaf-green, her face and her long hair shadowed by the trellis pattern as if she paused behind a garden’s climbing roses.

But her eyes were anxious, as if this gentle occupation was an attempted distraction from worry. The veil drifted to her knees and she bit her lip. Andry knew why she sat in the sunshine, and in private; she waited for word of the previous night’s battle. From Sioned, perhaps, or Maarken or Hollis. Certainly not from him.

He touched her as softly as possible. Still, her spine stiffened and her fingers clenched. She had no training in fending off his presence—yet the darkening of her colors in the sunlight told him she would have rejected him if she could.

Alasen leaned forward into the light, relieved, eager for details. She didn’t know how to speak across the sunlight, but it was simplicity itself to discern her thoughts from her face.

The battle happened as planned—Sioned can tell you the rest, or you can wait until the official version at the
Rialla.
I’m here now only to ease your worries—and to beg a favor. Alasen—I need your help. There are more of these
diarmadh’im
hiding in the Veresch. They are the enemies of every Sunrunner, of every prince and princedom. If any of us is to be safe, these people must be found and dealt with. I need you to tell me what’s said in the precincts of Castle Crag—it was one of their fortresses long ago, there may still be many of them nearby. Perhaps even working in your keep, near your children day after day! I need rumors, legends, anything that might point to someone bearing the Old Blood. With Mireva and Ruval dead, they have no hope left for power—and yet often when there seems to be no hope people join together in one final—

Her face had changed during this reasoned plea. She stared upward at the window with horror darkening her green eyes and her lips moving soundlessly on the word
No.
It struck him to the heart to know how much she feared him.

She leaped to her feet and ran from the sunlight, leaving the soft lace on the floor.

At the
Rialla
late that summer, Ostvel had come to him privately, grim-faced. “You spoke to her because you thought she’d listen. And she heard, all right—a plan for wholesale murder!”

“I never said that. I want them found and taken care of.”

“Killed is what you mean! You’d ‘take care’ of my son if you could!”

“You’re imagining things. You’ve always hated me, Ostvel. And we both know why.”

A long finger stabbed toward his face. “Hold your tongue and listen to me, boy. I know what you think of me and I know what you can do about it—precisely nothing. You’d get at me through Riyan if he didn’t have the protection of his rank and Pol’s friendship. But there are hundreds who don’t have that direct protection. Even if you didn’t intend to kill them all, don’t you see the danger? How could you tell guilt of sorcery from vicious rumor or spiteful lies?”

Andry condescended to smile. “You’re to be their protection, I take it.”

“You can have that written in stone,” Ostvel assured him.

“What makes you think you could stop me, whatever I decide to do?”

“Alasen.”

He hid his fury as her very name was used against him. “You set too high a value on your wife’s influence with me.”

“We both know differently, don’t we?”

“Get out!”

“Not until I’ve said two things more.”

“Make them brief. You’re boring me.”

“They’re so simple even you’ll understand. Neither Alasen nor I nor anyone else with a conscience will be a party to such butchery.” Ostvel’s eyes were the cold silver-gray of steel. “And if you ever approach my wife again, for any reason, in any way, then Lord or no Lord of Goddess Keep, I’ll take you apart with my bare hands.”

But Ostvel himself had given Andry what he wanted. Each of those from Princemarch who had come south to join Chiana at Mireva’s command had been questioned by Ostvel’s order. Though little was learned beyond the fact that she had bade them fight, each interrogation had a name and a location attached. It had been so easy to set Nialdan to read and memorize those names on parchment by the light of moons or sun.

He chafed more warmth into his fingers and smiled down at the butterfly pattern of the brazier. Ostvel’s protection was worthless. And even if Alasen found out about all this—he had lost her long ago. It didn’t matter anymore.

Pol himself had dealt with the traitorous Lord Morlen. The execution had taken place before the
Rialla
—a stupid move in Andry’s opinion. Morlen should have been killed in front of the other princes as a warning, the way Kiele and Lyell had died for similar treachery. But he ultimately approved Pol’s foolishness; not only did the execution have less of an impact for being carried out with no royal witnesses, but the cost to Pol of having to commit legal murder with his own sword had been dear—or so rumor had it. His cousin was no warrior. He lacked Rohan’s ruthless practicality. Andry had more than once heard the story of how his uncle had ordered the severed right hands of Merida enemies flung at the feet of their masters. Pol would never do anything of the sort. Pol was civilized.

He did not punish the others who had risen against him with more than a few confiscations of property as examples to others within the princedom. For his wisdom and his mercy he was lauded—publicly at least. And that had been the end of it insofar as Pol was concerned.

But Andry had the names, the places. He had already discovered the sorcerers within his own ranks. Torien, his Chief Steward, was distantly related to Ostvel’s first wife, Camgiwen—from whom Riyan had received his other gifts. Andry’s guess was correct; a simple sorcerer’s spell worked by Andry himself in Torien’s presence confirmed it. Throughout the summer the two of them tested others slowly, carefully, and without arousing suspicion. Those thirty-four whose reactions indicated
diarmadhi
blood were told that the specific spell caused their rings to burn—not a lie, but not the whole truth, either. None of them were banished; they were valuable. They would never rise to important positions, and certainly none but Torien would ever learn the craft of the
devr’im.

Thus he had set his own house in order. He trusted Torien completely—the man’s horror on learning what his reaction really meant had been proof enough of his loyalties, even if Andry had not been sure of him before. The others, equally ignorant of their mixed heritage, were not even watched for signs of treachery. But Andry had to know. Still, it wasn’t his Sunrunners but those unknown hundreds in the Veresch who concerned him. Pol was criminally negligent in not seeking them out. He didn’t know the favor Andry was doing him—and wouldn’t have thanked him if he had.

But that didn’t matter, either. Nothing mattered but the eradication of key
diarmadh’im.
Mireva was gone, and Ianthe’s sons, but there must be others who were capable of mounting attacks that would be discovered too late.

And after his vision in dreams tonight, he knew why they must be found. The sorcerers had long used the Merida; it was written in Lady Merisel’s scrolls, and Mireva had confirmed it. The men he had seen bore the telltale chin scar. If there were no sorcerers to command them, then perhaps that vision would not come to pass.

And yet—these new details, the encompassing new scene of tonight’s dream. . . . Something Chay had said nagged at him in odd moments—an implication that by working so hard to prevent his visions, perhaps he was helping them to come true. Fulfilling their prophecy, endangering the whole continent. But his father was no Sunrunner. He saw only with his eyes, not his soul. Andry had to believe that his efforts would help turn aside the horror, or he would go mad.

Five days ago he had skirted the route that led to Dragon’s Rest. Yesterday he had found and dealt with a man high on Ostvel’s list of those who had led the rebellion against Pol. Mindful of Mireva’s words about only one
diarmadhi
parent being necessary to produce gifted offspring, Andry had moved against the entire family. And in case someone missed the point, on the door of the remote woodland dwelling Nialdan had carved a sunburst radiating Sunrunner’s Fire.

He couldn’t deal with them all. He wished he could, but the hope was unrealistic. He could only remove as many as possible before the winter rains began and he must return to Goddess Keep. Next spring he would begin anew with those who had eluded him this time.

A scratch at his door tore him from contemplation and he whirled. “Who’s there?” he snapped.

“It’s only me,” said Valeda in hesitant tones quite unlike her usual brisk confidence. “May I come in, please?”