Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire Page 8

But not today.

  The dragon shrieked, head lashing toward the sky. Pol cried out at the same time, a terrible groan that shuddered his whole frame. Sionell flung her arms around him to keep him upright, calling his name.

  “Pol! You idiot!” Rohan gathered him from her and lowered him to the grass. His eyes were open and he mumbled incoherently, the muscles of his legs and arms quivering. Sionell knelt, shifting Pol’s head to her lap. Rohan framed his son’s face with his hands and called his name.

  The dragon howled again and took wing, circling the lake in panicked flight. All at once Pol’s eyes opened startled and wide. He gave a great sigh and went bonelessly unconscious.

  “Idiot,” Rohan said again, but in a relieved tone this time. “Maarken, Tallain, get him out of here and put him to bed.”

  The young Lord of Tiglath gently assisted Sionell to her feet. “He’ll be all right now, my lady. Let us take care of him.”

  She nodded numbly, grateful for his strong supporting arm as he gave her over to Arlis. Pol was slung between the two young men and carried away, utterly oblivious.

  “Whatever possessed him to try such a thing?” Hollis asked. “He knows how difficult it is—”

  “You just answered your own question,” said the High Princess. “If he’d gotten tangled in that dragon’s colors—”

  “He wanted to ask about Elisel,” Sionell murmured.

  “Perhaps,” Sioned conceded. “But what he really wanted, what he’s always wanted, is to touch a dragon himself.”

  Rohan rubbed a hand over his face. “If he wasn’t already to be punished by a sore brain for the next two days, I’d take him over my knee.”

  “I’d take him by the ears and shake some sense into him—if I could reach up that far,” Sioned countered. “Has that poor dragon settled down yet?”

  “Sunning himself and having a snack,” Arlis reported. “Are you all right now, my lady?”

  Sionell managed a shaky smile for the future Prince of Kierst-Isel. “Thank you, my lord.”

  Pol woke in time for dinner, sat up, moaned, clutched his aching skull, and collapsed back into the pillows. Tallain came downstairs to inform them that the prince had wisely decided to stay in his room.

  “How long did it take you to bully him into it?” Rohan asked curiously.

  Tallain grinned. “Two tries at standing, one at getting his pants on, and some very creative cursing, my lord. I hardly had to say anything at all.”

  “Good man. Let him convince himself. Walvis, I assume Feylin is lost in her statistics again, and won’t be joining us for dinner?”

  They were a small group that night, seated around a table in what would one day be the guards’ mess. Sioned had chosen to stay upstairs and wait for first moonlight to contact Riyan at Skybowl; he would know about Elisel. Chay, Tobin, and Maarken were at the stables tending a mare suspected of colic. So Arlis served Rohan, Walvis, Sionell, Tallain, and Hollis from a cauldron of stew made of leftovers from the Lastday banquet. When sweets and taze were presented at the end of the meal, the young prince was dismissed to his own dinner.

  Despite the day’s events, conversation was not of dragons or Sunrunning. Rohan plied Tallain with questions about an agreement signed only days ago with Miyon of Cunaxa regarding the border between princedoms. The gist of the matter was, could Tallain live with the terms?

  “Kabil of Tuath and I had a long talk this spring. With Sunrunners at our holdings able to contact Riyan at any time, we both feel fairly secure. And glad to give our people something better to do than patrol.”

  “Trust my son to need more iron than even Sioned was able to trick Miyon out of,” Rohan sighed. “And trust Miyon that the only way to get it was a reduction of troops along the border.”

  “That’s not quite fair,” Walvis observed. “Sorin learned so much from building Feruche that more iron had to come to Dragon’s Rest—plus it’s so much bigger.”

  “And whose fault is that? Again, my son’s.” The High Prince shrugged. “Ah, well. Reduction of patrols reduces the chance of any little ‘accidents’ like last winter.”

  Sionell sipped hot taze, remembering how close they had come to war with Cunaxa. An encounter along the border had led to a disagreement about who had encroached on whose land, ending with several dead on each side before both backed off. A courier had galloped into Tiglath that night; Tallain rode out at once with an escort. His quiet diplomacy—aided by a map drawn by Goddess Keep’s Sunrunners in 705 that strictly defined boundaries—had convinced the Cunaxans that the matter wasn’t worth further bloodshed.

  “Yes,” Tallain was saying in response to Rohan’s comment. “But if they’d been led by a Merida, I wouldn’t have let them away so lightly.”

  Sionell turned to him with interest. “How did you know it wasn’t?”

  “Northerners can smell a Merida at ten measures, my lady,” he answered with a tight little smile. “Ask your mother. She’s from our part of the Desert.” His brown eyes, startling contrast to the sun-gold hair swept back from his brow, lingered on her. She realized abruptly that he liked looking at her. She fought a blush as his attention returned to the High Prince. “Miyon’s impudent lately, though, which must mean he has a new ally. I suspect Meadowlord.”

  “Chiana and her Parchment Prince,” Walvis said sourly. “They’ve a natural affinity with Miyon. I can’t believe Chiana’s insolence in Naming her son after her grandfather—and her daughter for her whore of a mother.”

  Hollis blinked large, innocent eyes. “I’m surprised she didn’t Name him Roelstra.”

  Rohan grinned and rapped his knuckles on the table. “Now, now, children. We can’t encourage such disrespect for other princes—next, you’ll be insulting us! Tallain, will incidents increase or decrease along the border?”

  The thin smile crossed Tallain’s face again. “I couldn’t say, my lord—but for one factor. There’s an advantage to dealing with Prince Miyon. His merchants and crafters. They’ve got him by the throat, as ever. And they constantly try to sneak their shipments into Tiglath. Sometimes I let them.”

  “Reaping a substantial profit thereby?” Sionell asked, amused.

  “Of course, my lady. I let enough through to keep them trying. The rest I confiscate. You’d be astonished what they’re willing to pay to get their goods back and legally shipped. My father built two schools and a new infirmary on the proceeds. I’m planning to refurbish the market square next year.”

  “Oh, I do enjoy the law,” Rohan sighed. “Especially the ones my athr’im ignore to our mutual advantage. But I never heard any of this, Tallain.”

  “I never mentioned it, my lord.” The young man was unable to keep a twinkle from his dark eyes.

  “It’s not civilized of me, of course,” Rohan went on. “And I really shouldn’t condone this sort of thing, even unofficially.”

  Walvis was grinning openly. “But so much fun,” he urged. “And such a comfort to the rest of us to know you’re not perfect after all.”

  The High Prince pretended horror. “Sweet Goddess, don’t tell anyone!”

  Sionell laughed. Rohan really was so much nicer than Pol. “Your secret is safe with us!”

  “My eternal gratitude, my lady,” he responded with an elegant bow. “To return to the matter of the Cunaxans—Sorin feels they may start to use the trade route over the Veresch again, now that Feruche is there for protection. I hope you’ll forgive me, Tallain, if I make the passage fees low enough to encourage them.”

  Sionell answered, “He can hardly object, can he?”

  Tallain gave her a long look, then grinned. “Hardly,” he said in dry tones.

  “You’ll still make a profit,” Rohan added. “But if Miyon feels too bottled up, he’ll get nervous and start thinking about war again.”

  “I don’t think he’s fond of you, Rohan,” Walvis said blandly.

  Hollis was frowning. “He asked a lot of questions about Pol this year. And he was usually close by wherever Pol was.
He might simply have been taking his measure, of course. . . .” She trailed off doubtfully.

  “Did you get that impression?” Sionell asked. “His half-sister sat next to me at the races, being subtle.” She snorted. “She practically asked which boot Pol puts on first. As if I’d know anything, not having seen him for so long.”

  “Audrite and I got the same treatment,” Hollis said, nodding. “And she knows him much better, his having been a squire at Graypearl.”

  “None of you ladies said anything to the point,” said Tallain. Reverting in Arlis’ absence to the squire’s role he had held at Stronghold for many years, he rose to refill everyone’s cups.

  “No, but—thank you, Tallain—but why would Miyon’s sister ask such questions?” Hollis dipped a spoonful of honey into her taze. “Not political, personal. Private things.”

  “She’s only a few years older than Pol,” Walvis offered. “Maybe his grace of Cunaxa sees a match?”

  Sionell stared. “With a bow-legged, thick-ankled, witless shatter-skull?”

  “I agree, Ell. Pol has better taste,” Rohan said. “But maybe you’ve got something, Walvis. Which of Miyon’s allies have daughters, sisters, or cousins around Pol’s age? Pretty ones, I mean. An interesting idea.” Rising, he stretched and yawned. “That’s all for this evening’s meeting of the informal High Prince’s Council,” he smiled. “Hollis, with your permission I’ll join you in tucking Chayla and Rohannon into bed—again.”

  “You’re welcome to try.” She grimaced. “Thank the Goddess dragons don’t fly over Whitecliff more often. It took both their nurses plus Pol’s poor steward to catch my twin terrors today.”

  Sionell went upstairs to her room, escorted partway by Tallain. She had finished unplaiting her hair and was brushing it out for the night when her father came in, looking very thoughtful. After asking permission to be seated—even in a room he himself inhabited, the good manners learned as Rohan’s squire stayed with him—he settled in a chair and meditatively stroked his beard.

  “What is it, Papa?” she asked at last.

  “I don’t quite know how to begin,” he said with a bemused smile. His blue eyes narrowed slightly as he watched her tease tangles with the brush. He had given her those eyes, but she more closely resembled her mother and had Feylin’s dark red hair. “You’ve spent more time at Radzyn and Stronghold than at home these last couple of years. I suppose I haven’t really noticed that you’ve grown up.”

  “Surprise,” she smiled.

  “Rather! I like the way you’ve turned out—though I miss my pudgy little pest,” he added, his smile becoming a grin.

  Until last winter, Sionell had despaired of ever acquiring a waistline. Desert dwellers tended to be vain about their slim figures. In Gilad, a comfortably rounded woman was much preferred over a slender one—but Sionell no longer had to wish she lived in Gilad.

  “I suppose there’s no way to get around it,” her father sighed. “I wanted to talk to you about Pol.”

  She felt her cheeks burn. “A childish habit I’ve grown out of.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” She’d have to, sooner or later.

  “You’re very young, darling. I thought this might be the case. It would hurt your mother and me to see you dream after a man who can marry whom he chooses—as long as his Choice is highborn and faradhi.”

  “I know.”

  “I needed to be sure because of something that happened tonight.”

  He was watching her in a way that made her want to squirm. Thinking over the conversation at dinner and afterward, she remembered her outburst regarding Miyon’s half-sister and blushed again.

  Walvis was quick to see it. “So you have an idea about it already. I’m glad. He’s a worthy man, and a good friend. He quite rightly asked permission to begin a formal courtship. But I told him I’d have to consult you first. As fine a man as he is, and as good a husband as he’d make you, I wouldn’t give my consent even to Tallain if you were still—”

  The brush dropped to the rug.

  “So you didn’t know.”

  Her wits reeled like hatchling dragons darting through the sky. Tallain?

  “He admires you and would like to know you better. Give you the chance to know him. If you both like what you see, and can love each other, then your mother and I would be very happy with the Choice.”

  Humiliating that her first coherent thought was: I could have him if I wanted—that’d show Pol!

  “He wants to spend part of the winter at Stronghold so he can visit Remagev every so often. He won’t rush you, love. He knows you’re only seventeen, and certainly by next Rialla you’ll have an even wider choice of young men than you did this year.”

  And there had been plenty—but Tallain had not been among them. He had danced with her only once. Shyness? She doubted it. Fear of competition? Not with those eyes and that hair and that face—not to mention all that money. Abruptly his words about the riches to be obtained from Cunaxan merchants took on new meaning and she almost giggled. Subtle of him, to indicate he didn’t need her dowry. More seriously, she realized that he didn’t need her family’s connection to the High Prince, either. If he Chose her, it would be for herself alone. Sionell was forced to admire his tactics. And his wits. And his sense of humor. And his looks.

  He wasn’t Pol—but no man could be. And Pol would never be hers.

  With a suddenness that stopped her breath for a moment she recalled the previous afternoon’s conversation with Pol. He knows—that’s why he said all those things about Tallain—trying to get me married off!

  Her father was talking again, a bit nervously as she stayed silent. “Think it over for now, Ell. You don’t have to decide yet. There’s plenty of time.”

  “I don’t need any time,” she heard herself say. “Tallain can come visit me if he likes.” After a brief pause, her lips curving slightly, she added, “But we don’t need to tell him that just yet.”

  Walvis blinked, then burst out laughing. “You’d keep him guessing until the moment you accept him, wouldn’t you?”

  Sionell answered only with a shrug, but she was thinking, Yes, and if he thinks he has to work harder to win me, we’ll probably both fall in love. Nothing so interesting as someone unattainable, as I well know. But if I do marry Tallain, it’ll be because I can make a life with him. She had a brief vision of Pol hurrying to join the flirtatious maidservant. He’d look at every woman in the world but her. She’d known that since childhood. But now she believed it.

  Walvis rose and ruffled her hair as if she were still ten, saying she was too clever for her own good. Then he went back downstairs to persuade Feylin to leave her musings about the dragon population and come up to bed.

  Sionell smoothed and rebraided her hair with automatic movements. If not Tallain, then someone else. But she did like him. And it was soothing to be admired by a handsome, wealthy young lord.

  “Lady Sionell of Tiglath,” she whispered. Then, even more softly: “High Princess Sionell.”

  No decisions tonight, except the one allowing Tallain to try. But if he was as she believed him to be, then it wouldn’t be difficult to love him. Not as she loved—had loved—Pol, of course. Tallain would know that. But he would never say anything about it, no more than Ostvel ever said anything to Alasen about Andry.

  And it was very nice to be wanted. Very nice indeed.

  Chapter Six

  726: Swalekeep

  Autumn was breathlessly hot in Meadowlord. Nothing moved. Swollen gray clouds neither blew away nor rained nor seemed able to do anything but loiter. Even the mighty Faolain River lay sluggish just outside the city walls, as if reluctant to flow. The stillness would break soon. But until it did, even walking through the stifling air was an effort.

  If autumn affected Swalekeep’s population, who were used to it this way, it was even worse for visitors. Two such, longing for the Veresch Mountains where they made their home, dragged themselves from their beds at th
e Green Feather Inn, hoping for some vague coolness in the dawn.

  “Hideous climate,” the old woman muttered. “How do these people bear it?”

  Her companion, a tall young man with copper-threaded brown hair and intensely blue eyes, bent a sardonic glance on her and made no comment.

  “And so many of them,” she went on. “All jammed together—it’s not natural to live like this, Ruval.”

  Still he said nothing, knowing as well as she the history of Swalekeep. The warrior who had originally set himself up as lord of the general vicinity had built the first part of a defensive castle, to which his heirs had added as need or whimsy prompted. Swalekeep’s population had swelled periodically as Meadowlord’s powerful neighbors treated the princedom as their private battlefield and refugees swarmed in. Eventually a Prince of Meadowlord, weary and impoverished by the sporadic influx of mouths to feed, decreed that enough was enough and built a wall higher than a dragon’s wingspan around his holding. During High Prince Roelstra’s last war with Prince Zehava, that wall had kept Swalekeep safe.

  During the twenty-one years since Rohan had taken Roelstra’s princedom and title, the wall had been unnecessary. When bits of it were spirited away to become foundation stones for new homes and shops, no one did anything but shrug. Swalekeep’s inhabitants had eventually knocked down whole sections of wall, and all over the city blocks of gray-veined granite did duty as everything from mounting blocks to entire first floors. And the words of Eltanin of Tiglath, that Rohan would build walls stronger than any stone to keep peace among the princedoms, were in Swalekeep attributed to their late prince, Clutha.

  The old man had never had half so abstract a thought in his life. But it made a good story—except in Princess Chiana’s hearing.

  “I wonder how Marron likes it here,” the old woman asked suddenly.

  “Servitude is hardly his style—but he’ll have to get used to it. Only one of us is going to be the next High Prince, after all. And it won’t be him.”

  She chuckled low in her throat. They paced off the neat cobbled streets, past shops with living quarters above, the elegant homes of rich merchants and court functionaries, and finally neared the old castle itself. Of the more than five thousand who lived in Swalekeep, perhaps a hundred were out and about in the muggy morning heat.