The Star Scroll Part 39

This very New Year's Holiday, while Rohan and Sioned were planning the progress through a Princemarch conquered by Pol's smile, Pandsala had been busy conquering Firon through Ajit's death. She had grown impatient; she could not wait for the old man to die a natural death, and had hastened him to it with poisoned wine that had seized his heart and stopped it.

Finally, this spring, there had been Inoat and Jos of Ossetia. Dead in a boating accident on Lake Kadar, leaving Chale's niece Gemma the only choice as heir to the princedom. And with it rumored that Kostas would wed Gemma, was it any wonder that Inoat and Jos had died? Small matter that Tilal and not Kostas would be Gemma's husband and prince; the effect was the same, another princedom ruled by another of Pol's kinsmen.

Pandsala had set her sights on Kiele this year. Unable to prevent the marriage to Lyell, which had occurred before Pandsala's regency, for some reason Pandsala had let Kiele live long enough to produce a son and daughter. But this year she had been singled out for death when she had championed Masul.

And other proposed murders? None other than Ianthe's sons. Their names were known, but not their location. Though nothing had been heard of them since Feruche had burned to the ground, Pandsala was convinced that they lived. She had sought Ianthe's sons for years, would search for them as long as she had breath-until or unless proof positive came that they were as dead as their mother. For these three, more than any other of Roelstra's grandchildren, would crave lands, castles, princedoms, power-and Pol's death.

Eleven deaths accomplished in less than fifteen years. And not a hint, not a breath of rumor, had ever been heard that they had been anything other than sad accidents or natural deaths. Nothing had ever connected them with the woman who looked up at him now, her fists pressed to his chest.

Rohan stared into Pandsala's fevered dark eyes. Sweat dappled her forehead. It was hot here in the sun, but the fire raging in her was even hotter.

Rohan tried to breathe around the horrible constriction in his chest. "Oh, sweet G.o.ddess-why?" The question was a deathly whisper, harsh and hopeless. And with all the other truths revealed, he now heard the most terrible of all.

"For the son she she gave you-the son that should have been gave you-the son that should have been mine! mine!"

Panic leaped up and was beaten back with violent speed-for if she knew, he had to keep his wits, not give in to fear or rage or anything else that might destroy the sudden balance he sensed between them. It was a sick and twisted equilibrium, with Pol as its fulcrum: Rohan's love weighted against Pandsala's lies. But in understanding it, he found strength to preserve it.

For he must protect that balance at all costs. He had given her power and Princemarch and her pride, and she had responded with unswerving devotion to depleting the ranks of those who might oppose Pol. That this loyalty had taken so hideous a form was his payment for having used her so well, for having been so blind.

Blazing from Pandsala's dark eyes was hatred that had never been directed at Rohan. It was not directed at him now. By rights his rejection of her for Sioned ought to have earned her hatred. It had not. How could she hate the man who had given her a life, the man whose son she had worked for these many years? No, Rohan did not figure on the list of her hates.

Her father, yes, for exiling her to G.o.ddess Keep. Sioned, who had Rohan's heart and body and mind. Ianthe, who had borne his son. These three she hated. But Rohan saw something more in Pandsala's eyes. She hated them because he had spent more of himself on them than he ever had on her. Jealousy was the core of her hate. Jealousy of Roelstra, whom Rohan had battled; of Sioned, whom he loved; of Ianthe, who had carried his child. They had claimed him and Pandsala could not.

So she had claimed his son's future. Murdered to show her love, twisted other lives to keep him safe. Created much of the world Pol would inherit, a legacy of blood and hate.

Roelstra's daughter.

Andrade had warned him, all those years ago. So had Tobin, and Chay, and Ostvel. But Rohan had been too sure of his own cleverness. Too arrogant in his own power to consider what use she might make of hers. Too willing to believe that she would work to the best of her abilities for Pol's cause in Princemarch.

Oh, yes, she had worked. To the best of her considerable abilities.

He could not speak, mortally afraid of saying anything to upset this terrible balance between them, which if overset might turn her against him and Pol. She held power over him that terrified and infuriated him. But he was as incapable of killing her now as he had been of killing Ianthe years ago at Feruche. Coward! Coward! he accused himself, and had to answer, he accused himself, and had to answer, Yes. Yes.

Pandsala's low, intense voice clawed at him. "His eyes-they might be mine, you know, in shape if not in color. There's something about him-things that don't speak of her but of me. I saw it in him from the first. He should have been ours, Rohan, not hers! She doesn't deserve him. I've seen how he looks at her with such love-love that should have been mine mine-"

"She-" He choked and like a swordstroke to his heart the knowledge was in him: She doesn't know. She doesn't know. And abruptly the balance shifted to him. That one truth was more powerful than all her lies. She believed Pol to be Sioned's son. She did not know about Ianthe. And as the power surged in him, strong and deadly as Sioned sometimes described the flare of Sunrunner's power, he knew he would use that truth as ruthlessly as Ianthe herself would have done. And abruptly the balance shifted to him. That one truth was more powerful than all her lies. She believed Pol to be Sioned's son. She did not know about Ianthe. And as the power surged in him, strong and deadly as Sioned sometimes described the flare of Sunrunner's power, he knew he would use that truth as ruthlessly as Ianthe herself would have done.

"I've thought of him as ours," Pandsala went on softly, almost dreamily. "When she's not nearby I can believe he's yours and mine. No mother in blood could love him more, want more for him. If you think what I've done is horrible, then think what his life would have been had I not acted. All those rivals that might have come from my sisters' marriages-I rid him of most of them and I'm glad! He'll be High Prince and faradhi faradhi and the most powerful man who ever lived! Think what I've done out of love for him, Rohan, things and the most powerful man who ever lived! Think what I've done out of love for him, Rohan, things she she would never have done!" would never have done!"

Her eyes glittered with enchantment at her work on Pol's behalf, actions that would haunt his manhood as High Prince and faradhi. faradhi. The balance between that clean, proud boy on one side and this terrible blood-soaked woman on the other was suddenly intolerable. The balance between that clean, proud boy on one side and this terrible blood-soaked woman on the other was suddenly intolerable.

"Sioned would never have done such things," Rohan said quietly. "But Ianthe would."

Pandsala stared at him without comprehension.

"Your sister! Pol's mother!" he shouted, shaking her until her head lolled on her neck, long hair tumbling about her face. "Did you think she lured me to Feruche and kept me there to indulge in common torture? Why do you think she let me go? She was pregnant with my son! The child you claim to love is the child of the sister you hate! Pol is Ianthe's son-and mine!"

Pandsala let out a keening moan and crumpled to her knees, huddled over, rocking back and forth with her arms clasped around her chest as if to hold her body together. Rohan stood over her and spoke words that splintered even the broken shards of her.

"The first time, I thought she was Sioned. The second time it was rape. I knew exactly who she was and what I was doing. She kept me there until she was sure, and then laughed and let me go. I went to battle, knowing that my son was in her belly. Sioned knew it, too-she waited, waited-and then went to Feruche to take the child, and razed the castle to the ground. How does it feel to know you've worked and schemed and murdered on behalf of Ianthe's son?"

Pandsala had killed children. Naydra's unborn son, Jos of Ossetia who had been only a little boy. She had left other children fatherless, motherless; she had taken children from old men, and women who could bear no more.

She had done it for hatred of Roelstra, rejoicing that a prince not of his blood would rule his lands, that heirs of his line would never sit at Castle Crag. She had done it for love of Rohan, rejoicing that the man her father and Ianthe had hated would rule Princemarch. And now she knew that the boy who had been her revenge was of Roelstra's blood and Ianthe's bearing. She gave a sob that sounded like her last breath and sank her fingers into her coiled hair, rocking from side to side.

"What you've done-G.o.ddess-what you've done will burden him for the rest of his life," Rohan said. "But you you will burden him no longer." will burden him no longer."

She looked up at that, face swollen with congealed horror and the tears that welled in her eyes but did not fall. "If I have to die, let me die for a purpose," she choked.

"What purpose? Killing Masul?" He wanted to demand why, if she was so loyal to Pol, she had not killed Masul long before this. But he knew that if she could have, she would have. "Oh, no. He lives until he's proven a liar. I'll not spend the rest of my life hearing doubts of Pol's claim to Princemarch." He smiled thinly. "And it's rather a good claim, don't you agree?"

She slumped, her hair straggling about her, and in the sunlight he saw the streaks of white through it. "Then kill me now," she said tonelessly.

"Pol can't afford it. If I put you on trial and you're condemned as you deserve, the burden on him will be the greater. So I won't kill you." But, G.o.ddess, how I'd like to, and with my bare hands. . . . But, G.o.ddess, how I'd like to, and with my bare hands. . . . "Perhaps I'm the coward Chiana thinks I am. But after what you've done-I think the better death for you is the kind your father condemned you to years ago. I won't send you to G.o.ddess Keep. You'll retire quietly to a manor somewhere-perhaps I'll rebuild Feruche for you," he suggested viciously. "Would you like to supervise its reconstruction, Pandsala? Would you?" "Perhaps I'm the coward Chiana thinks I am. But after what you've done-I think the better death for you is the kind your father condemned you to years ago. I won't send you to G.o.ddess Keep. You'll retire quietly to a manor somewhere-perhaps I'll rebuild Feruche for you," he suggested viciously. "Would you like to supervise its reconstruction, Pandsala? Would you?"

A shudder of loathing went through her. Still, she had courage enough to meet his gaze. "Whatever you wish, my lord. I am yours now, as I always have been."

"I don't accept such gifts as you offer. Do you even understand what you've done? Do you?"

"I know that I did it all for the best, for Pol. For you. I loved you both. G.o.ddess help me, I still do. I regret nothing."

"You will. Believe me, in the years ahead, while you watch the Long Sand from Feruche, you will know what regret is."

He knew it now himself, for he could not kill her even though every fiber of him screamed for her death. It would be nothing more than justice for all the murders she had done, all the men and women and children she had destroyed in Pol's name. He was momentarily tempted. But the barbarian in him was the victor, pulling in harness for once with the civilized prince. Condemning her to a living death immured at Feruche was infinitely more cruel than if he had indeed thrust a knife through her heart. More vicious, and more practical.

No, he would not kill her, and he could not expose her crimes. He would have to live with this. And so would she.

"Get up," he ordered. When it seemed she had no strength to rise, he took her by the elbows and yanked her to her feet. She stumbled, sc.r.a.ped her hair back, and went down to the river to wash the stains of emotion from her face. Rohan watched impa.s.sively, wanting nothing so much as her death. He now understood the impulse as his own shame at having been so wrong, so fatally wrong. Was that truly what he couldn't stand? That he could make so hideous a mistake? He wished he could seek Sioned's counsel. But he forbade himself that comfort, that sure understanding. Forever.

When Pandsala had tidied her hair and smoothed her skirts, Rohan started back to the encampment. He heard her half-stumbling footsteps behind him. Wherever he was, whatever exile he condemned her to, he knew he would hear those footsteps behind him for the rest of his life-tripping over corpses.

Prince Lleyn required not only the support of his cane but that of his son's strong arm as he made his way into Rohan's pavilion. Chadric settled his father in a chair and stood beside him, his face carefully schooled to neutrality. Lleyn's expression was perfectly easy to read; he voiced both annoyance and curiosity at once.

"Very well, I'm here. Now tell me what it is that can't wait another instant."

Rohan stood before the old man. "Forgive me for summoning you here," he began quietly.

"You wouldn't have made it an order from the High Prince unless it was necessary. Tell me, d.a.m.n it!"

"I need a great favor from you, my lord. From both you and Prince Chadric." He hesitated, then cast a glance at Sioned. Her head was bent, her fingers laced tightly together in her lap, her body utterly still. He had kept his promise to himself, had told her nothing. And how she resented it.

Returning his gaze to Lleyn, he went on, "Firon desires a prince descended from its own royalty. I ask you now if you would do me the favor of considering your grandson Prince Laric for that position."

Lleyn's parchment skin flushed slightly across the cheekbones and he fixed Rohan with a hard, questioning glare. But it was Chadric who spoke, his voice as bewildered as his expression.

"Laric? Why? Your son's claim is much stronger, coming through both you and Princess Sioned-"

"Be still," Lleyn whispered. His gaze now read into Rohan's soul. It was a very long time before he spoke in a voice like the rustling of dry leaves. "I thought Firon settled on Pol. Something has changed your mind. Something that occurred today. I do not believe it was the vote, but if that is the reason you wish to give, then I will accept it."

Rohan bent his head. "Thank you, my lord."

"With my grandson as Prince of Firon, you will have a sixth and deciding vote in Pol's favor. I understand this much. I will not ask you why this was not proposed earlier, when it could have saved us all a great deal of trouble."

Again Rohan nodded, almost a bow.

"But have you thought this through? You know I have no ambitions outside my own island. Chadric will take my place when I am gone, and after him his eldest son, Ludhil. For Laric there will be his mother's manor of Sandeia, or governorship of the ports, or whatever he likes and suits his talents. We do not meddle in the concerns of the continent, Rohan. We have no need to. It is one reason we thrive."

"I understand, my lord. But it is not possible for my son to inherit Firon or any portion of it."

He had just undergone a stormy pa.s.sage with Sioned, Tobin, and Chay on precisely that subject. Understandably, they had all argued. And for the first time in their experience of him, he had shouted that it was his decision and his will and they would abide by the dictates of the High Prince or else. Stunned, hurt, and furious, Tobin had swept out of the pavilion in a rage. Chay had followed after a single eloquent glare. Speechless with betrayal, Sioned had refused to look at him at all. She remained only because Rohan had ordered her to be present during his talk with Lleyn and Chadric. He hated himself for not telling them the truth, but he simply could not bring himself to do so.

As for Firon, he had no choice. What Pandsala had done by murdering Prince Ajit had made taking the princedom impossible. He could not bring the dead back to life, but he could refuse to profit by the crime. Small comfort, when there were so many other crimes from which he had unknowingly gained so much.

"Pol cannot take Firon," he repeated.

"Why?" Lleyn asked. "Do you believe an excess of power would be dangerous? Or do you believe that Andrade will not produce sufficient evidence tonight?"

Sioned was the one who answered. Her low, quiet tones startled Rohan. "It is the perception others would have of an excess of power, my lord. You've had the care of my son, you and my lord Chadric. You know him. Do you think he would ever abuse any power he was given?"

"Of course not!" Chadric exclaimed. "Honor is as much a part of him as the blood in his veins. But that wasn't our doing, my lady."

"We will share the credit, if you please," she replied softly, and looked up with a faint smile. "But as well as we know and trust him, others would not. Or at least, they would choose not to. He will have the Desert and Princemarch. That is enough."

Lleyn still watched Rohan. "I've never known you to act out of imagined fears or threats."

"Yet we all have our secret terrors," Rohan responded. "Volog fears for his grandson that the eventual union of Kierst and Isel will be an uneasy one. Davvi fears that Tilal's marriage to Gemma, bringing him Ossetia's throne, will set him against his brother Kostas when the latter inherits Syr. You fear involvement on the continent. We are all afraid, my lord. Only some of us have the option of removing some of our fears.

"You could say that I am frightened for my son, and you would be correct. Enough burdens will be placed on him-the Desert, Princemarch, the t.i.tle of High Prince, his Sunrunner gifts. Is it cowardice or prudence on my part to remove a probable cause for dissension, and threats not only to his power but to his life?"

"And you hope to do this by using my grandson."

"Yes," Rohan said quite frankly.

Lleyn tilted his head up and stared at Chadric, whose amazement had become worry. "Could Laric do it?" the old man asked.

"I don't know."

"Come, don't be modest about him! Could he rule Firon?"

Sioned leaned slightly forward in her chair. "My lords, would he be happy there? While I agree that it would be best for everyone else if Laric were to rule Firon, if it would not be best for Laric, then I am opposed to the plan."

Rohan shot her a dark glance that she ignored.

"Your beauty is equaled by your heart, my dear," Lleyn said. Then he sighed and shook his head. "I don't know. I've outlived myself, I think."

"I'm sorry to trouble you with this," Rohan said. "But I had to, my lord. Believe me."

"I do, I do." Lleyn squared his frail shoulders and said more briskly, "If I might have the use of a Sunrunner to speak with Eolie tonight at Graypearl, then we can let the boy choose. But it will be his his choice, Rohan, not mine or even his father's. Modesty aside, I think he'd do very well. He'd be wasted on a manor or supervising the silk trade or the pearl beds. He's young, to be sure, and rather studious-but I seem to recall another young and bookish princeling who hasn't done too badly for himself." The old man c.o.c.ked a brow at Rohan, who felt a smile touch his lips for the first time that day. "And the young are flexible, G.o.ddess knows. They learn quickly how to be princes. I a.s.sume there will be treaties providing him with military support, should he require it?" choice, Rohan, not mine or even his father's. Modesty aside, I think he'd do very well. He'd be wasted on a manor or supervising the silk trade or the pearl beds. He's young, to be sure, and rather studious-but I seem to recall another young and bookish princeling who hasn't done too badly for himself." The old man c.o.c.ked a brow at Rohan, who felt a smile touch his lips for the first time that day. "And the young are flexible, G.o.ddess knows. They learn quickly how to be princes. I a.s.sume there will be treaties providing him with military support, should he require it?"

"Of course. I've drawn up a proposal for your inspection." He took the parchment from his desk and gave it to Chadric. "Should Cunaxa attempt anything, the Desert will invade from Tiglath. Volog will, I believe, provide naval support. And there is a stretch of the border between Firon and Princemarch that would serve for a garrison. If there's anything else you think Laric will need, please don't hesitate to add it."

"Generous of our cousin of Kierst," Lleyn remarked dryly. "But then, it's all in the family, isn't it? Tell me, Rohan, why not his younger boy?"

"Volnaya is only seventeen-not even knighted yet. Besides, Davvi's sons will one day rule Syr and Ossetia. Volog's grandson Arlis will unite Kierst and Isel when he inherits. Pol will have the Desert and Princemarch. They are all near kin to Pol. But Laric is not, Dorval is very far from Firon."

"Ah, yes. The two will not merge as those others will. Although I wouldn't count on Kostas and Tilal working closely together, without someone keeping a very tight rein on both. But have you you considered that with my grandson in Firon, Pol will eventually have four kinsmen controlling five princedoms among them? With Princemarch and the Desert combined, that makes six out of eleven. That's a rather threatening total-when you're not one of the six." considered that with my grandson in Firon, Pol will eventually have four kinsmen controlling five princedoms among them? With Princemarch and the Desert combined, that makes six out of eleven. That's a rather threatening total-when you're not one of the six."

"I've thought about it," Rohan admitted. "And about Tilal and Kostas, as you've said. But though I know this kin-network is likely to fall apart in a generation or two, by then we'll all be dead and it'll be someone else's problem."

"Someone else's secret fear." The old prince smiled grimly. "Well, then, find me a Sunrunner who knows Eolie's colors, and we'll inform my unsuspecting grandson that he can become a prince." He eyed Sioned. "No, my dear, you may not not volunteer to be that Sunrunner. Andrade has sufficient volunteer to be that Sunrunner. Andrade has sufficient faradh'im faradh'im in her suite to spare me one this afternoon." in her suite to spare me one this afternoon."

Chadric helped his father up, supporting him as far as the doorway. The frail body abruptly straightened. "I can walk," Lleyn snapped. "Leave me be."

"Of course, Father."

When they were gone, Rohan turned to Sioned. She was staring at her hands again, unnaturally still. The fire-gold hair was in shadow, the brilliant eyes veiled by her lashes. It hurt to see her light dimmed, and to know that he had caused it.

"I know you don't understand," he began quietly.

"No. I don't." She lifted her face, her eyes dark. "What did Pandsala say to you today? I don't believe your reasons for this any more than Lleyn does. What did she tell you, Rohan?"

He was tempted. G.o.ddess, he wanted so much to let the truth flood out of him. Stubborn self-pity forbade it.

"You swore once never to lie to me," she whispered.

"I never have."

Her eyes flared with sudden challenge. But after a time she looked away again. "d.a.m.n you."

Rohan sank into the chair Lleyn had used, feeling nearly as old as the man who had recently vacated it. And alone. G.o.ddess, alone as he had not felt since his early youth, when he had dreamed and worked and slept and lived alone. Before Sioned.

He gazed at her proud head, bent now, and the ache in him was not so much for her pain as for his own, a selfish pain that was his punishment for what he had given Pandsala the power to do. But there was a cure for his pain, and for Sioned's. Neither of them had to be alone. Weak and cowardly he was-but he could not live outside the solace of his wife's mind and heart.

By the time he finished telling her, she had covered her face with her hands as if the words had brought pictures she could not bear to see. She said nothing for a long time. Then, at last, she whispered, "Her father watered a living green meadow with salt. She has done it with blood."

Rohan winced, remembering. That autumn and winter of his war against Roelstra, it had rained for more days than anyone wanted to count. With the first break in the storms, he and Chay and Davvi had ridden out to survey the plain where Roelstra's armies had camped. The troops were gone. In their place was a wide, shallow lake created by diverting a tributary of the Faolain. But before the water had been let in to drown the gra.s.ses and soak the soil to viscous mud, the entire meadow had been sown with salt.

Roelstra had had the power to order the befoulment of the Earth itself. Rohan had looked on it, the sharp fumes of rotting soil and salt thick in his nostrils, and nearly wept. He felt the same sick despair now.

"All that blood-" Sioned looked up, her eyes haunted. "It's on us, too, Rohan. We're trying to wash it clean, but it won't come off. She's just like Ianthe, just like her! Why didn't we see? see?"

"It was my blindness. Not yours. I won't let you blame yourself for my failure."

She shook her head stubbornly. Tears spilled down her cheeks. "We were warned, both of us. And we didn't listen. Oh, sweet G.o.ddess-Rohan, what have we done? Roelstra's daughter!"