The Star Scroll Part 18

A derisive snort greeted this remark. "You love it and you know it."

"I have to admit it can be fun. It's a great responsibility, but a joyful one. To conclude a treaty that gets a better price for sheep, to give a dowry to a boy or girl whose parents haven't anything for them-just knowing that armies won't trample the grain while it ripens-there's goodness in those things, Pol. And if the joy ever goes out of being a prince, then ask yourself who it is you're serving: the people who trust you, or yourself."

"But you talk about duty as if it really is fun!"

"I never had more fun in my life than the night I gave Remagev to Walvis. You never saw it when it was nothing but tumbledown walls and old Cousin Hadaan trying to prop them up. Walvis made it into a working keep again. Now he raises more sheep than anybody in the Long Sand, and his gla.s.s ingots are among the finest we produce. And there's joy in that, Pol."

"I guess I understand. But it still seems grim sometimes."

"Well, I suppose so. But we get so much, Pol-I'm not talking about deference or even the chance to outwit an athri athri who thinks he's outwitted you." Rohan smiled again. "And it's not the jewels and fine horses and things that come of being rich. We get the chance to who thinks he's outwitted you." Rohan smiled again. "And it's not the jewels and fine horses and things that come of being rich. We get the chance to do do things. Good things, things that matter and will make this a better place for our having been here." things. Good things, things that matter and will make this a better place for our having been here."

He crossed his ankles and stared at the toes of his boots. "If you and I were, say, a farmer and his son, we'd make sure our wheat grew tall and hearty, so we'd get the best price and feed ourselves-but we're also feeding those who buy our grain. Of course, few farmers look at their crops and say, 'How wonderful that I'm growing such fine grain to feed so many!' But you see my point. All the crafts fit into the weave. So do you and I. Only what we get to do is somewhat more spectacular on the face of it." He shrugged. "And it can hurt more, too. Sometimes you have to lead an army against someone who doesn't see being a prince as the chance to do valuable work, but instead regards it as the chance to make others do as he pleases."

"The way Roelstra did."

"Yes. That's when being a prince is a very hard thing. You have the power to order men and women into battle where many of them will die. That's the grimness, Pol. There's no joy in winning a war. There's only grief, and regret that it had to be fought at all."

"But we have to sometimes, don't we? To get the chance to do the good things, help the people who trusted us enough to follow us and fight for us." Frowning, Pol went on, "But we also have to work hard to make sure we're not cheated by people we have to protect whether they've cheated us or not! It hardly seems fair."

"Did I ever say it was? Pol, there are many ways of being a prince. One is to enjoy the material advantages and not worry about the responsibilities. You'll find plenty of examples at Waes. I prefer that type, personally. They're no threat to anything but their own treasuries. Another way is to enjoy your power to order people's lives-not for their benefit, but for your own amus.e.m.e.nt. You'll see several of that kind, as well. They aren't very fond of me, because I won't let them indulge. And then there's the kind like me, who prefer to exercise their brains instead of their swords. Sheer laziness," he said casually. "I don't like going to war. It involves all sorts of inconveniences and I hate being away from my own home-"

"And Mother," Pol added mischievously.

"That goes without saying."

The boy lounged deliberately back in his chair, legs sprawled and arms dangling. "I think I'll be your kind of prince," he decided, grinning. "As long as my wife's pretty enough!"

Whatever reply Rohan might have made other than laughter was interrupted by a discreet scratch at the door. Pol straightened up quickly as his father gave permission to enter. A young girl came in, dressed in brown homespun and carrying an empty tray.

"Just here to take away the dishes, your graces-excuse me, please, I won't be but a moment-"

"Of course," Rohan said, gesturing to the table where the wine pitcher rested and holding out his cup for her to take.

Pol, primed now to notice everything and draw conclusions, observed the girl closely. Wisps of black hair escaped the severely knotted braids at her nape, and she brushed them back with a remarkably well-kept hand. The dirt beneath her nails was an incongruity somehow, and set him to wondering. As she placed pitcher and cups on her tray, she met his curious gaze quite levelly. Her eyes were a peculiar shade of grayish green, their expression older than her perhaps eighteen winters. He blushed at being caught staring, and rose to stand near his father. The girl bent her knees awkwardly to them before turning to leave, but somehow the gracelessness seemed false as well, fitting her as badly as the brown homespun dress and dull green shawl with its ragged fringe. Her eyes held his again before she went out, and there was laughter in them.

"Father-"

Rohan held up a finger for silence. Pol listened, not knowing what he should be hearing, and then had it. The latch had not clicked. He thought rapidly, then said, "All that wine-which way to the nearest garderobe?"

Rohan nodded his approval and congratulations. "To the left, I think, end of the hallway."

Pol saw no one on his way there and back. He made sure the door was firmly shut when he came back into the room, and his father grinned at him.

"Very nice," Rohan approved. "See anybody?"

Pol shook his head. "Do you really think she wanted to listen?"

"I don't know. It might have been carelessness, leaving the door unlatched. But I think I'll watch Lord Morlen even more carefully. For now, though, I don't want to watch anything but the insides of my eyelids." He turned to the huge bed in the corner. "Do you know, I haven't slept beside anyone but your mother in longer than I can remember. I do hope you don't snore."

"Snore! Mother says that sometimes you rattle the windows!"

"A vile and insulting lie, for which she will pay dearly the next time she kicks all the covers on the floor."

Pol stripped and slid into bed, feeling a bit muddle-headed-not from his father's revelations about Rezeld or being a prince, but from the potent wine. He was gratified that no comment had been made about his taking a cup. Several cups, actually, enough to have made the garderobe really necessary; his ploy hadn't been entirely the inspiration it had seemed. Now, with the torches snuffed and only the soft starlight glowing through the windows, for it was one of those infrequent nights without moons, he felt as if his brain was slowly awhirl inside his skull.

After a considerable time in an unsilent darkness, he turned onto his side and fixed an accusing look on his father's sleeping face. "You do so snore!" he whispered, and got out of bed.

No one stirred down below in the small courtyard. He peered through a broken pane of gla.s.s and mused on what else besides tapestries and candles Lord Morlen might be hiding. His father would find it, whatever it was. During childhood Pol had always looked on Rohan as the source of all knowledge and wisdom. Nothing he had seen had ever disabused him of the notion. He simply could not conceive of his making a mistake.

But Pol began to think that he himself had as he saw a single figure hurry through the courtyard, heading for the postern gate. The starlight showed him a bulky dark gown and fringed shawl-and he blinked in surprise. Why would a servant girl be out at this time of night, and leaving the manor? The obvious explanation, a lover, occurred to him. He shrugged. But then the girl abruptly stopped, swung round, and looked straight up at Pol.

A slight, biting breeze came through a broken pane. Pol drew back, his gaze fixed on the woman's upturned starlit face. Not a girl's face; a woman's. Its shape was the same in arch of brows and line of the mouth. But this was the face of a mature woman of fifty winters, probably more. She was smiling, the laughter that had been in her eyes earlier finding expression in a malicious, mocking curve of lips and quirk of brows.

Then she drew the shawl up over her head and melted away, out the postern gate and into the night-dark forest. Pol shivered and turned away, deeply troubled.

"What is it?" his father asked softly, sitting up in bed, the stars glinting off his fair hair.

"Nothing." Pol made an effort to smile. "Maybe Meath is right, and I am am too young for that much wine." too young for that much wine."

Mireva reached the brookside tree where she had left her own clothes, and shucked off those she had stolen from a drying line at Rezeld Manor. Excitement warmed her cheeks and her body; she felt nothing of the night's chill as she redressed in her own garments.

So that was young Prince Pol, she thought. An intriguing face, just like the father's, but with the aura of more than princely power about him. More than Sunrunner power, as well. Mireva laughed aloud as she loosed her hair from its confining braid and shook her head wildly. She had not been mistaken about the sensation of being with her own that had come at proximity to the youth. She knew it in Ianthe's three sons, and in all others who were of diarmadhi diarmadhi blood. But whereas with Ruval, Marron, and Segev, she knew the power had come from Princess Lallante, she had no idea which of Pol's ancestors had carried the gift. Sioned's people were readily traced on her father's side back to the blood. But whereas with Ruval, Marron, and Segev, she knew the power had come from Princess Lallante, she had no idea which of Pol's ancestors had carried the gift. Sioned's people were readily traced on her father's side back to the faradhi faradhi invasion of the continent; no source there. Of her mother's people before the marriage of a Sunrunner to a Prince of Kierst, nothing was known. Perhaps Pol got his doubled talents from her. invasion of the continent; no source there. Of her mother's people before the marriage of a Sunrunner to a Prince of Kierst, nothing was known. Perhaps Pol got his doubled talents from her.

But there was Rohan as well. Again, his paternal ancestors were firmly established-but his mother Milar's forebears, who were also Andrade's. . . . Mireva tied her skirt around her waist, grinning. What perfect irony if the Lady of G.o.ddess Keep herself was diarmadhi! diarmadhi!

Then she sobered. Whoever and wherever it had come from, this second legacy of power was a new wrinkle and possibly a dangerous one. Sunrunner alone was bad enough, but Mireva could have dealt with that. Pol's inheritance of her own kind of power presented several alternatives.

She started the long walk back to her own dwelling, mulling over her choices. Killing Pol tonight had not been one of them; nor was drugging him or interfering in any way with his mind or body. She had only wanted a look at him, to judge what kind of man he would grow into. There was much of his father about him, not only in looks and the way he held himself but in the clear-eyed, intelligent, curious way he had looked at her. No, killing him was not what she had come for, not why she had a.s.sumed her guise of youthfulness-and then shed it, knowing he watched. To explore his face with her eyes, to intuit his faradhi faradhi strength, to set an uneasiness into his mind: those had been her purposes. Killing him would have to wait some years yet. strength, to set an uneasiness into his mind: those had been her purposes. Killing him would have to wait some years yet.

But this business of his being diarmadhi diarmadhi was a thing to give her pause, and perhaps to rethink the future. What if she let it be known and demonstrated somehow that Pol was descended from those Andrade feared so much, those the was a thing to give her pause, and perhaps to rethink the future. What if she let it be known and demonstrated somehow that Pol was descended from those Andrade feared so much, those the faradh'im faradh'im had worked so hard to destroy? The other princes were nervous enough about his Sunrunner status as it was; might they object so strongly to having him trained in the arts that Rohan would have to back down on Pol's had worked so hard to destroy? The other princes were nervous enough about his Sunrunner status as it was; might they object so strongly to having him trained in the arts that Rohan would have to back down on Pol's faradhi faradhi education in order to save his throne? What if she threw her own support behind the boy, instead of Ianthe's sons, and made him her pupil? That thought held a great deal of charm, but she rejected it with a shake of her head. There was too much in Pol's face of his honorable fool of a father to make Mireva's games of ambition and power palatable to him. education in order to save his throne? What if she threw her own support behind the boy, instead of Ianthe's sons, and made him her pupil? That thought held a great deal of charm, but she rejected it with a shake of her head. There was too much in Pol's face of his honorable fool of a father to make Mireva's games of ambition and power palatable to him.

But what if she told nothing about Pol's other gift-and taught Ruval methods the diarmadh'im diarmadh'im had used to discipline, even kill, their own kind? Their greatest tragedy was that these had no effect on had used to discipline, even kill, their own kind? Their greatest tragedy was that these had no effect on faradh'im faradh'im; while fighting off the Sunrunners so valiantly, they had learned this to their final defeat. Of course, teaching the willful Ruval such potency was a calculated risk; he might use it on his brothers or even on her if she could not control him. She knew Ianthe's sons, and trusted none of them.

Mireva slowed her strides as dawn slid over the mountains, and stopped as she watched the last stars fade before another day of blinding summer sun. Uncharacteristically indecisive, she worried the problems for some time as the air heated around her and made even her thin gown too warm. Then she shrugged. She would wait and see whether Ruval would need such methods against Pol. There were many years ahead to plan the boy's death-and she reminded herself that Sunrunners had their own special vulnerability, one that her people did not share. Pol's faradhi faradhi blood made him susceptible. It would be an interesting choice of deaths for him-through his proud Sunrunner heritage or through his unsuspected Old Blood. But for the present she had other concerns. blood made him susceptible. It would be an interesting choice of deaths for him-through his proud Sunrunner heritage or through his unsuspected Old Blood. But for the present she had other concerns.

She had not heard from Segev since his departure for G.o.ddess Keep. Soon she would have to reach him on starlight, find out if he was close to successful theft of the precious scrolls. Soon, too, she would have to discover what had happened to Masul, who had killed four of her strongest minions in escaping from what would have been his surest path to triumph. She had heard rumors about him for years, of course; Dasan Manor was only a mountain or two from her home. She shrugged again, irritably. If he was too stupid to grasp at the kind of power she could offer, he deserved to fail. Whether or not he was Roelstra's son made no difference to Mireva; she only wanted to use him to find out what sort of approach would be best when it came Ruval's turn to challenge Pol.

But this led her back to the vexing question of exactly what she ought to teach Ruval. How much she dared teach him. How far she could trust him.

Mireva trudged on through the growing daylight, cursing the necessity of having others do her work for her. At a time when she had been ready to abandon all hope of ever restoring her people to their rightful place, Lallante's grandsons had given her renewed purpose. But still she wished that they were not also Roelstra's get. The man had been impossible to control. She wondered suddenly if that was why Lallante had married him. Her kinswoman had always been a puling ninny, frightened of power and declaring that it was not for nothing that their people had been defeated so long ago. Roelstra, High Prince, most powerful man of his generation-until Rohan had come along-had provided Lallante with a haven utterly safe from any other influences, including those of her own kind. Roelstra, who had been as ungovernable as his grandsons would be if Mireva was not very, very careful.

Chapter Thirteen.

Castle Crag had not seen such splendor in more than forty-five years, not since Lallante had arrived to become Roelstra's bride. Banners of all the important athr'im athr'im of Princemarch snapped in a breeze surging up from the gorge, and the golden dragon on blue was raised to signify that the High Prince himself would soon be in residence. An eager crowd lined the road for half a measure, four people deep. Flowers were strewn, people cheered themselves hoa.r.s.e, and trumpets blared from the battlements as Rohan and Pol led the way into the courtyard. of Princemarch snapped in a breeze surging up from the gorge, and the golden dragon on blue was raised to signify that the High Prince himself would soon be in residence. An eager crowd lined the road for half a measure, four people deep. Flowers were strewn, people cheered themselves hoa.r.s.e, and trumpets blared from the battlements as Rohan and Pol led the way into the courtyard.

Pol whispered to his father: "I feel like I'm about to be the main course at a banquet."

Rohan laughed softly. "They're hungry for a sight of you, hatchling, not a bite of you!"

Rohan had never before visited Princemarch and had resisted all suggestions that he do so. Although nominally it belonged to him, he had made it clear that Pandsala was Pol's regent, not his, and that his son should be considered Princemarch's ruler, not himself. Once the boy was knighted and had learned faradhi faradhi skills, he would take over here and rule it as an independent princedom until, at Rohan's death, the Desert would also become his. Rohan hoped that years of thinking of Pol as their prince would make the transition smoother when it came time for Pol to govern. skills, he would take over here and rule it as an independent princedom until, at Rohan's death, the Desert would also become his. Rohan hoped that years of thinking of Pol as their prince would make the transition smoother when it came time for Pol to govern.

This distinction was pointed up by Pandsala's welcome. She came down the stairway, dressed in blue and violet, and her first bow was to Pol. He followed his father's instructions, taking her hands, raising her from her knees, and bowing over her left hand where she wore the topaz and amethyst of her regency-along with Sunrunner's rings. Only then did she turn to Rohan and bend her knees. Thus it was that in full view of the highborns and other dignitaries a.s.sembled in the courtyard, Pol's place was openly acknowledged as being above Rohan's. It was prettily done, and Rohan appreciated it.

Pol had never met Pandsala before, and found her something of a surprise. She did not look her forty-four winters, but was rather more like he recalled Lady Andrade: nearly ageless, anywhere from thirty to sixty. Her face had a sharp-boned, aristocratic handsome-ness that conveyed great dignity but little warmth, even when she smiled. In addition to the ring Rohan had given her as token of her charge, she wore five Sunrunner's rings. Her eyes were cool brown, and silver waved from her temples through braids wound atop her head. Her welcome was delivered in a quiet, respectful voice, and everything was done with the ceremony due their rank-and she made Pol very uneasy. Certainly she was pleasant enough. He did not understand his reaction to her; perhaps it was the way she gazed at him, then looked away whenever he tried to meet her glance directly.

"I have messages for your grace from High Princess Sioned," she told him while escorting him, Rohan, and Maarken upstairs to their chambers.

"You do?" Pol asked eagerly, only realizing at that moment how much he missed his mother. Then, because he didn't want to show it, he added, "Have the dragons hatched yet?"

"Not for another ten days or so," she replied, smiling a little. "Probably at about the time we leave for Waes."

"I'm sorry we'll be taking the long way this year, my lady," Maarken apologized with a smile both rueful and charming. "Neither Pol nor I have your enviable ability to cross water without disgracing ourselves."

"It's of no consequence, Lord Maarken. I never much liked the sail down the Faolain anyway." She turned to Rohan. "The High Princess is quite well, my lord, and begs that you will be on time to the Rialla. Rialla. She has much information to share with you about the dragons." She has much information to share with you about the dragons."

"She and Lady Feylin have discussed nothing else all summer," he said, smiling. "That was a beautiful tapestry on the landing, Pandsala. Cunaxan?"

"Gribain, my lord, and new. I've been encouraging trade with them, as you suggested some years ago. They've improved since their first efforts."

"Mmm. I think we saw a few at Rezeld Manor-clumsy, threadbare things that wouldn't keep out a sneeze, let alone the winter winds they must get up in the mountains." He glanced at Pol, his expression perfectly innocent, and the boy had a difficult time controlling his own. "I was impressed with Lord Morlen, however, and his inventory of livestock. You'll have to fill me in about his quarry, too, while we're here."

"I'm pleased he's done better in the last few years, my lord. He's forever crying poverty." She gestured to a servant who opened a large door of carved pine inlaid with shining black stone. "Lord Maarken, this is your suite. I hope it will be satisfactory."

Maarken was self-possessed enough not to gape at the luxuries within. He merely nodded. "Thank you, my lady. I'm sure it's entirely adequate to my needs. If you'll excuse me, I'll wash off the dirt of the road and attend you later."

Pol did not have sufficient control of his eyes and jaw not to react when Pandsala herself opened the door of the suite he would share with his father. The first room was a gigantic reception chamber, bearing signs of recent redecoration, though not in the manner of Rezeld: here there were new hangings, fresh paint, cushions that had never been sat on, and the tart scent of citrus polish. Blue, violet, and gold were the dominant colors, sumptuous and slightly overwhelming.

The bedchambers were done in similar fashion. Smiling, Rohan watched Pol's face, and when Pandsala had left them he said, "Well? What do you think?"

"It's-it's-"

"Yes, it is, isn't it?" He sank into a chair, relishing its comfort after so many days in the saddle.

"Father-she makes me a little nervous."

"If she behaved a little stiffly, it's because she's anxious for everything to be perfect. Actually, you you probably make probably make her her nervous, too." nervous, too."

"Me?"

"Mm-hmm. I may have hired her on, but her real master is you-and she knows it."

"But I don't have any say in what goes on here!"

"Not yet. yet."

Pol digested this in silence, then jumped on the bed, landing with a bounce and a grin. "At least I have my own room and don't have to listen to you snore!"

"I do not not snore, you insolent-" snore, you insolent-"

"Do so."

"Do not!" Rohan tugged a pillow from behind his back and threw it. Pol responded with an overstuffed bedcushion. Rohan caught it and tossed it back at him. "Not again, or we'll have feathers all over!"

"Dignity, dignity," Pol said mournfully, shaking his head. "I have to behave myself, don't I?" He fell onto his stomach, arms wrapped around the pillow. "Well, when I do do come to live here, this stuff is going to go. I don't care if princes have to live in state-I'd be afraid to take a bath in case I got the tub dirty! Did you see the size of that thing? You and Mother don't live this way. Why did Pandsala do all this?" come to live here, this stuff is going to go. I don't care if princes have to live in state-I'd be afraid to take a bath in case I got the tub dirty! Did you see the size of that thing? You and Mother don't live this way. Why did Pandsala do all this?"

"The whole place is the same, you know. And think for a moment about why she'd want to make this the most splendid suite in all Castle Crag. Don't mistake her, Pol. She's not showing off what she can do with money. Everything she does is for us. When she committed to us against her own father, she risked everything-including her life. There were plenty of people, Tobin and Andrade included, who told me I was out of my mind to make her regent here. She knows that, too." He sighed quietly. "Her commitment is all she has. With her royal blood, she could never have been a traditional kind of Sunrunner, attached to a court somewhere. Can you honestly see a daughter of High Prince Roelstra as a court faradhi? faradhi? And since Andrade never liked her much, returning to G.o.ddess Keep was out of the question." And since Andrade never liked her much, returning to G.o.ddess Keep was out of the question."

"Mother wouldn't have her at Stronghold, either," Pol observed.

"Uneasiness around Pandsala isn't an uncommon reaction," he mused. "I can't say that I'm all that fond of her, but I appreciate her and especially the work she's done for us." He paused a moment. "It gave her a life, Pol. She was trained for nothing in her youth except to be a princess, and then after her father's death-" He shrugged.

"I heard Mother say once that ruling here is her revenge on her father."

"Perhaps. But she also genuinely cares about you and about Princemarch. We've seen what the results have been."

"Except that she never figured out about Lord Morlen!" Pol grinned, then sobered. "But I can't help feeling funny around her."

"As I said, she probably feels funny around you, too. Stop thinking so much!" he chided affectionately. "If I worried as much as you do, I'd be bald as a dragon's egg. We're supposed to be having a good time, you know."

"I was was-until we had to start getting dressed for dinner. Any chance that there won't be a banquet tonight?"

"You can dream," his father replied.

But the banquet was canceled only a short time before it was due to begin. Rohan was still draped in a bath towel when Maarken came to tell him the information Pandsala had just received on the last of the evening sunlight.

"Inoat of Ossetia and his son Jos went sailing today on Lake Kadar. They were due back well before sunset. But their boat washed up onsh.o.r.e, empty. Rohan-the bodies were found a little while ago. They're both dead."

He sat down on the ornate bed. "Another death-two deaths. Sweet G.o.ddess. . . . Jos is a few winters younger than Pol." He picked at the fringed hangings. "Chale must be devastated. He adored them both."

Maarken nodded. "His only son and only grandson. I met Inoat once or twice-he visited at G.o.ddess Keep while I was there. I liked him, Rohan. He would've made a fine prince." He paused. "I've told Pandsala to cancel everything at once. I hope that wasn't presumptuous."

"No, not at all. Thank you for thinking of it. We'll observe the ritual for them tonight. . . ." He trailed off and raked a hand back through his wet hair. "You know what all this means, don't you? It may sound cold to be thinking politics right now, but-"

"You're High Prince. You have to think politics."

He smiled slightly. "You're very like your father-good for my conscience in all ways. He's soothing when I need it, and kicks me when it's necessary. Promise you'll always do the same for Pol."