Sunrunner's Fire Part 13

Pol smiled back, a stretching of his lips from his teeth. "I'd rather kill you."

"Of course. But you won't." He tossed dagger, sword, and bloodied talon to the ground, his movements casually elegant and reeking of insolence. "I think I ought to tell you that once I'm occupied with you, the dragon will be released from certain . . . restrictions. She's not at all happy right now. In fact, she's likely to rip any or all of us to shreds."

"Unquestionably," Pol replied with perfect calm.

"So rather than play other and, I'll admit, equally interesting, games, why don't you put up your sword and ride away like a good little prince? It'll save everyone a great deal of bother."

"You understand that I can't do that," Pol said as if to a particularly slow child. "But while we're discussing things, I'd like to know who you are and why you're doing this. Neither my father nor I take kindly to persons who murder our dragons."

"As if they belong to you!" He laughed.

"They are mine as Princemarch is mine-which is to say, they are under my protection as prince and Sunrunner."

"Ah, yes. Credentials must be presented, like good amba.s.sadors. You already know mine, I gather. But I thought you'd puzzled this out by now. I wanted to meet you, and this seemed an invitation you couldn't ignore."

"And my palace at Dragon's Rest would have been a little too . . . confining." Pol nodded. "Well, you've met me. What now?"

"Nothing so crude as killing you. Not yet, anyway. I require a larger audience for that." A short pause and a mocking smile. "Cousin."

"I thought you'd make some claim to that effect," Pol mused. "And since it's on the soil of Princemarch that you've chosen to perpetrate this outrage, it must be Princemarch you want." He sighed tolerantly. "Another b.a.s.t.a.r.d son of Roelstra's, no doubt, wearing a color you have no right to. That's been tried before. Try to think up something more original."

"So you have reasonably quick wits. I'm glad-it will make this more interesting. I don't like things made too easy. But as to originality. . . ." He grinned into Pol's eyes. They were much of a height, Pol perhaps a finger-span shorter; the prince was as broad in the shoulders, but slimmer through waist, hip, and thigh. A trained warrior's physical instinct had sized up his opponent earlier; a trained statesman's cunning had given him the man's intellectual measure; but more than either, the sensitivities of a faradhi faradhi fully trained in Sunrunner arts and conversant with the secret, dangerous Star Scroll chimed clear, shrill warning. When he met this man in battle, it would not be with swords, as his father had fought Roelstra, nor would it be with words, as he had confronted the pretender Masul nine years ago. fully trained in Sunrunner arts and conversant with the secret, dangerous Star Scroll chimed clear, shrill warning. When he met this man in battle, it would not be with swords, as his father had fought Roelstra, nor would it be with words, as he had confronted the pretender Masul nine years ago.

The man gave Pol a slight, impertinent bow. "My name is Ruval, I was born at Feruche, and I have the honor to be the first-born of Ianthe of Princemarch." He grinned then. "Not Roelstra's son, you see, but his grandson."

Pol felt himself go very still. He should have laughed in the man's face, told him that Ianthe's sons had died with her the night Feruche had burned to the ground. But he could not, because he knew the truth. Urival, just before his death, had called him to his bedside in private.

"No one knows what I'm about to tell you. Not Andry, not even your mother. Ostvel may suspect-he has access to Roelstra's archives, remember. But you must tell no one until you believe the right time has come. You recall the boy who died at the Rialla, Rialla, the sorcerer? I kept him anonymous, threw his body into the Faolain so no one could identify him as I had done. What I saw in his face was Ianthe. He was her son, Pol-the youngest, Segev. He called himself 'Sejast' but he was Ianthe's son. The other two must also be alive. Ruval and Marron are their names. I don't know where they are, though I've searched whenever I had the chance. I believe they're in the Veresch somewhere, but-who can say? If they're anything like her, and judging from Segev you can bet that they are, they are the greatest danger you could face. They are the sorcerer? I kept him anonymous, threw his body into the Faolain so no one could identify him as I had done. What I saw in his face was Ianthe. He was her son, Pol-the youngest, Segev. He called himself 'Sejast' but he was Ianthe's son. The other two must also be alive. Ruval and Marron are their names. I don't know where they are, though I've searched whenever I had the chance. I believe they're in the Veresch somewhere, but-who can say? If they're anything like her, and judging from Segev you can bet that they are, they are the greatest danger you could face. They are diarmadh'im, diarmadh'im, Pol. Princes, just as you are, but sorcerers as well. I've taught you all I know, all I safely could, of the Star Scroll, antic.i.p.ating them. Now it appears I won't be there, my prince, to help you face them. For they will come, Pol, never doubt that. Ianthe's sons. When you find them, kill them. They must die. They deserve to die. Segev killed Andrade." Pol. Princes, just as you are, but sorcerers as well. I've taught you all I know, all I safely could, of the Star Scroll, antic.i.p.ating them. Now it appears I won't be there, my prince, to help you face them. For they will come, Pol, never doubt that. Ianthe's sons. When you find them, kill them. They must die. They deserve to die. Segev killed Andrade."

Pol stared at Ianthe's eldest son, recognizing at last the distinctive shape of nose and chin. Urival had once conjured for him a representation of Roelstra's face in Fire; two generations had altered the face subtly, changed the coloring a bit, added a narrower jaw and wider cheekbones-enough changes to foil identification unless one was looking for it. He knew that this man was who he said he was. And his companion must be Marron. But he could not admit it. Must not.

"You're no more Roelstra's grandson than I am," he snapped.

"Then perhaps you truly are my cousin in fact, and not merely in courtesy between princes." Ruval's blue eyes were laughing again. "Which of my mother's esteemed sisters could have sp.a.w.ned you?"

"I've heard it said that of all the sisters, Ianthe was the most like Roelstra in her bedroom habits," Pol riposted smoothly. "Which servant, squire, or groom do you claim as your father?"

At last Ruval reacted with something other than amus.e.m.e.nt. His eyes lost their taunting glitter and narrowed dangerously. "My father was Lord Chelan, a highborn with bloodlines-"

"-suitable for standing at stud," Pol interrupted, beginning to enjoy himself.

Ruval's jaw clenched. But he swiftly regained control of himself. "In any case, you have many things that belong to me, but restoring to me my mother's castle of Feruche will make a good start."

Pol smiled. "When dragons spend winters in Snowcoves," he said.

"There'll be hatchlings riding icebergs next summer," Ruval snarled.

This time Pol was the one who laughed. "Sorin!"

"My prince?" His cousin was beside him immediately.

"I see a tree felled over there-obviously intended for securing the dragon. Slice off two branches an arm's span long, if you would."

Sorin grinned, understanding Pol's intention. "We already have the spikes, my prince."

"So I noticed."

Ruval had recovered his poise again. "You wouldn't dare," he commented easily.

Pol eyed him. "No? Oh, go ahead, release the dragon. Do you think I don't see that in your face? Let her go-and see what good it does you."

He hoped Riyan had heard and comprehended the challenge. The possibilities of sorcery worried him, but he was counting on timing. To work against Pol, Ruval would have to release the dragon-but the instant she was free, she would go wild with rage and the only thing on anyone's mind would be getting out of her way. Riyan could, he hoped, subdue her before Ruval or Marron could either work any magic or use more conventional forms of attack. Besides, the brothers were outnumbered and Pol's other allies were watching from the hilltops. Pol felt confident in his gamble; it was a wager Sioned would have taken at once, being inordinately fond of a good, dirty bet when almost all the odds were in her favor. It just might work, Pol told himself.

And it would have, too, if not for the dragon. Dangerous enough at any other time, she was crazed by pain, terror, and her frantic consciousness of the eggs forming within her body. Increasingly through the spring and up until her chosen cave was walled up, she would focus more and more on the new lives slowly swelling her belly. Once she flew from her cave, she would forget all about them, and treat her own surviving hatchlings just as she would any others. Dragon parenting was a communal effort, shared by all females and sires. But until that wall was secured, she was concerned only with her instinct to protect her eggs-and right now that meant protecting herself.

Thus when Ruval abruptly released her, she went mad. With a terrifying roar she threw her head back, then came down with her good foreleg clawing for Ruval. He made the mistake of grabbing for his sword; talons ripped through his tunic and shirt, tearing long slashes in his back. He cried out with the pain and fell, rolling onto his back with the sword raised to hack at her if she went for him again.

But she turned her attention to Pol, raising up once more in preparation for disembowelment. It was how his grandfather Zehava had died. He thought this in the same instant he wove sunlight into a strong, tough fabric, not even lifting his sword. The dragon's jaws opened wide and she bellowed her fury down at him, her ma.s.sive body drawn to full height now and ready to descend on him.

He heard a harsh scream nearby, wondered in anguish if it was Sorin or Riyan or Edrel; hoped it was Marron. Ruval was near him on the ground, his sword pointed up at the dragon, frozen in horrified fascination as she reared up. Her tail lashed, the uninjured wing folded to her back, the broken one dangling at her side. Pol stared up at her, protected by nothing more than the offered sunlight. She was magnificent and beautiful and lethal, and he knew he ought to be terrified of her.

What felled him was not her talons or her dagger-sized teeth. He staggered as the full force of her sunwoven colors smashed into his. He went to his knees hard on the gra.s.s, gasping, using every bit of his strength to keep sane and whole. I won't hurt you, I'd never harm any dragon-I'll kill this other for you, I swear I will I won't hurt you, I'd never harm any dragon-I'll kill this other for you, I swear I will-The emotions flooded through him, undammed by contact with the pain-maddened dragon. Savage hatred, unspeakable agony, furious terror for her hatchlings' safety-he tried to counter with his love for dragons, his fierce joy in their beauty, his determination to protect them-and to kill Ruval, who had done this hideous thing to her. He looked up, senses reeling, his mind close to shattering like fine Fironese crystal, expecting that at any instant those talons would gouge out his guts.

The dragon never touched him.

The contact gentled despite her terrible pain. Pol caught his breath as wordless questions tumbled over and over each other, pictures and feelings and demands all mixed up until he felt his grip on sanity weaken dangerously. She seemed to realize it and drew back a little. In the air between them his faradhi faradhi senses touched the brilliant pattern of her, more complex than anything he had ever felt before. His attempt at Dragon's Rest had resulted in a shock that had well and truly scared him. Now he understood that there simply had not been enough time-or enough need. senses touched the brilliant pattern of her, more complex than anything he had ever felt before. His attempt at Dragon's Rest had resulted in a shock that had well and truly scared him. Now he understood that there simply had not been enough time-or enough need.

Lost to all else in the intensity of the encounter, he never saw the battle that raged around him for a few brief moments. He showed her an image of the lake at Dragon's Rest, the sheep kept there for the exclusive use of her kind. A low hum reached his ears and he smiled when she painted light in the form of his palace, the blue-gray stone all aglow in the dawn. He was aware of her agony, but as a remote thing now, not the shrieking fire in her wing and foreleg. But when he tried to convey help-a splint, salves, tender care for as long as it took for her to heal-tears ran down his cheeks at her reply: an image of her own lifeless corpse. She would never fly again, even with a mended wing. And a dragon without flight was as a faradhi faradhi shut away from the sun. shut away from the sun.

"My lord! My lord, please! Come back!"

He whimpered with pain as someone shook his injured wing. It pa.s.sed, and his own arm was gripped in Edrel's trembling hands. He looked up at the boy.

He said thickly, "Get Riyan-tell him to send the dragon into sleep, spare her any more pain-" All at once he remembered why he was on his knees in the gra.s.s, and twisted his body around. "Sweet G.o.ddess," he whispered.

Rialt and the guards had come, but not in time. Ruval and Marron were gone. There was blood on Riyan's tunic, more on his hands; he rubbed his ringed fingers convulsively, as if he would chafe the skin raw. He stood over Pol with a stricken, desperate look in his eyes.

"Sorin-" he began, and choked.

"No," Pol breathed. He hauled himself up with Edrel's help and stumbled to where his cousin lay. The blood on Riyan's hands had come from the gaping wound in Sorin's thigh, the urgent pulse weakening. A frantically applied tourniquet was useless; the deep artery had been severed.

Pol sank to his knees and brushed the sun-streaked brown hair from his cousin's eyes, and tried to swallow his sick fear.

Sorin met his gaze. "My prince," he said softly, his voice steady. "Lost them-I'm sorry."

"No. Sorin-"

"Let me speak, Pol." The corners of his mouth turned up in a slight smile. "They're a threat to you and need killing. Do that for me."

He nodded helplessly, then flung a look at Rialt and Riyan. The latter had unashamed tears in his eyes that terrified Pol; the former merely shook his head and glanced away.

"Doesn't hurt, really," Sorin whispered. "Tell Mother that." A sudden gasp negated his denial of pain.

"Easy, easy," Pol soothed, taking the water skin from his belt. "We'll get you back to Elktrap and-"

"No. To Feruche." His eyes lost focus for a moment, then sharpened. "I know you can't trust Andry as I do-but at least try to . . . understand him. For my sake, Pol. Please. And for your own."

"Sorin-"

"Promise. Never asked . . . anything of you, my prince . . . I'm asking now."

Pol cleared his throat. "Yes-anything, Sorin. Please-I need you."

He smiled vaguely and his eyes closed.

"Sorin!"

The hand on his arm made him look around. Riyan was white with shock. He held out both shaking hands, the shining rings dark with Sorin's blood. "Pol, there was sorcery at work here."

"They'll die for it," Pol heard himself say. Then he wrapped his arms around Riyan's trembling shoulders, and they both wept.

Chapter Eleven.

Castle Pine: 7 Spring.

"Your grace!"

"My lord!"

A swift, wary embrace like that of two dangerous animals in an unnatural mating, and Miyon of Cunaxa stepped back. He was tall, leanly made, with deceptively lazy eyes and a mouth too wide for his narrow face. During the seventh winter of his reign and the nineteenth of his age, he had personally executed the greedy advisers who had thought to rule Cunaxa forever through him. For the last twenty years he had ruled with an authority that had challenged the considerable power of his fractious merchant cla.s.s. He desired two things in life: safe, inexpensive trade routes, and the Merida out of his princedom. His lips parted in a smile over sharp white teeth as Ruval bowed to him, for here was the means to acquire both.

"Forgive the necessary secrecy of your reception," Miyon said, waving the younger man to a chair. "I am not yet in a position to welcome you openly. But accept my congratulations on your recent accomplishments."

Ruval laughed. "If you mean the dragons, thank you. But if you mean Sorin of Feruche's death-my brother Marron was responsible. I wouldn't insult my sword with the blood of anyone under the rank of prince."

"By which you you mean Pol. I see. Well, I'm grateful to your brother, then, for leaving Feruche without a lord. I'm considering giving it to my eternal pests, the Merida." mean Pol. I see. Well, I'm grateful to your brother, then, for leaving Feruche without a lord. I'm considering giving it to my eternal pests, the Merida."

Ruval's face froze in a pleasant smile. "Your grace understands that it is the castle of my birth."

"Of course," Miyon agreed blithely. "And belongs to Princemarch. But that's why you're here, is it not? To find out what I want in exchange for my help in getting what you want."

"Your grace is very direct."

"It saves time," Miyon acknowledged. "Where is your brother, by the way?"

"Enjoying the hospitality of the guards mess, the better to fit in with your suite when you go to Stronghold."

The prince could not disguise his astonishment. "What?"

Ruval, having betrayed Miyon into an honest reaction, smiled again as he followed up the advantage. It would not last long; he had made a study of the Cunaxan prince. He shifted his shoulders gingerly against the talon wounds on his back and said, "It would be entirely natural for you to wish a pre-Rialla discussion with Rohan, Pol, and Tallain of Tiglath-who speaks for Tuath Castle as well these days, since Kabil has no sons to follow him and his holding will undoubtedly go to Tallain on his death. Working out a trade agreement prior to the discussion with Rohan, Pol, and Tallain of Tiglath-who speaks for Tuath Castle as well these days, since Kabil has no sons to follow him and his holding will undoubtedly go to Tallain on his death. Working out a trade agreement prior to the Rialla Rialla at Dragon's Rest will put all three princedoms in a position of strength when it comes to further negotiations with Dorval, Grib, and so on." at Dragon's Rest will put all three princedoms in a position of strength when it comes to further negotiations with Dorval, Grib, and so on."

"How very clever of me," Miyon drawled, angry that he had been outthought but too pragmatic to argue. Then his dark eyes began to sparkle with genuine glee. "And in my party at Stronghold will be you, your brother-and my daughter, Meiglan."

"Exactly, your grace. I knew you'd find it an interesting proposal."

Miyon leaned back in his chair, long legs sprawled in front of him. "Well, well. Now I understand. You'll be disguised, of course. Members of the guard, I suppose. I hope you're able to hide yourselves well. Pol has already seen you."

Ruval waved away his worries. "You needn't be concerned, your grace. Only get us to Stronghold, and we'll do the rest."

"Stronghold."

Hate and envy lurked beneath the rich tones of Miyon's voice, but the emotion in his eyes was covetousness. Ruval had never understood why the prince so desired that pile of rock on the Desert's edge; perhaps it was a symbol for him, the way Castle Crag was to Chiana.

"You may have Feruche with my goodwill," Miyon was saying. "But Stronghold is mine. And Tiglath." He paused. "And Skybowl as well. That's my price."

"Done," Ruval said, relieved that help was coming with so cheap a promise. "I've always thought draining the lake at Skybowl would make an intriguing agricultural project." He smiled. "Tiglath is obvious, of course. Profits should increase tenfold once your merchants don't have to triple the price of their goods because of transportation costs."

Miyon's brows rose. "I cannot describe to you how relieved I am that you comprehend trade objectives."

"I should have thought they'd be clear to anyone with eyes to look. No one could visit Swalekeep, for instance, as I have, and not see the difference between its level of prosperity and your own."

"The Desert strangles us," Miyon agreed. "Tricks us, extorts money-" He broke off with a frown. "Perhaps you have some thoughts on a matter that has vexed me for some years now. Why is it that Rohan is so d.a.m.nably rich?"

Ruval blinked. It was not a question that had occurred to him before. His grandfather Roelstra had been extremely wealthy, so he had a.s.sumed Rohan's revenues from Princemarch had swollen Desert coffers all these years. He said as much to Miyon.

"Perhaps," the prince admitted. "But consider what's been spent in the last eight or nine years. Feruche appears to have been built out of Sorin's share of Chaynal's obscene wealth-and the iron that b.i.t.c.h Sioned tricked me out of in 719. Yet there's been no discernible decrease in Sorin's reserves-not that he's around anymore to enjoy them, for which I must remember to thank your brother. And then there's Dragon's Rest. Total up the cost of the buildings, furnishings, carpets, fixtures-everything down to the silk napkins. It's a colossal amount, probably equal to five years of revenue from Princemarch."

Ruval leaned forward, intrigued. "Yet it doesn't seem that he's beggared my princedom."

"No. And the sum I estimate is not even the whole. I am immediately informed whenever a caravan makes its way to Dragon's Rest." The prince grinned suddenly, as if daring Ruval to discover his sources of information. "They come from Castle Crag, from Syr, from Ossetia, from Radzyn-"

"Supplying still more items that look look as if they were purchased by other courts!" Ruval made an incautious move and hid a wince as his shoulder twinged. as if they were purchased by other courts!" Ruval made an incautious move and hid a wince as his shoulder twinged.

"Precisely. The money involved is staggering. Where is it coming from? Your grandfather was rich, but not that that rich. And Rohan is fool enough not to take advantage of his position as High Prince to accept gifts in exchange for his favor. rich. And Rohan is fool enough not to take advantage of his position as High Prince to accept gifts in exchange for his favor.

"Do you know where he's getting the money, your grace?" Ruval asked, not bothering to disguise his eagerness.

Miyon shrugged irritably. "If I did, would I be sitting here trying to puzzle it out? There's something else, too. The Desert took much less time to recover from the Plague than other princedoms-especially considering the amount of gold Rohan paid Roelstra for the drug that cured the disease. He didn't demand money when he distributed it elsewhere. He didn't bleed his va.s.sals dry to pay for it. Where does his wealth come from?"

"When we capture Stronghold, we're likely to find out."

"Possibly. But I would rather find out before that, so we don't have to go looking for it. I don't trust Rohan, he's too clever. He wouldn't keep his treasury at his own castle. Perhaps it's at Remagev."