Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll

by Melanie Rawn

  Meath lifted his hands so his rings caught the light drifting down through the shade above them. “My father was a metalsmith in Gilad, and my mother was a fisherman’s daughter who hated the sight of the sea. It was from her that I received the gifts that made me a faradhi. The first of these rings is for calling Fire. It took me three years of training before I earned it. I was past twenty before I was worthy of my fourth ring, and two years older than that before I received my fifth and sixth. It may be you have more of the gift than I—but you also have more to lose by it than I ever did.”

  “More to lose?” Pol frowned, bewildered. “Don’t you mean more to gain?”

  “No,” Meath said in harsh tones. “You were born to two kinds of power. You’re a prince and one day you’ll be a Sunrunner.”

  “And I could lose all of it, is that what you mean?” the boy whispered, his fingers white-knuckled around the reins. “Meath—”

  “Yes?” He lowered his hands to the horse’s neck.

  “You’re right to scare me with it. Did you do the same for Maarken?”

  “I did.” He consciously relinquished control of the blue-green eyes, and the blond head bent. Meath knew this lesson ought to have come from Sioned—who herself knew both kinds of power. But the right time was now, and he had to make sure the right lesson was learned. “It scared me, too,” he admitted. “Every day of my life, until I learned to know myself. That’s what the training at Goddess Keep is for, Pol. It teaches you how to use your instincts and your powers, but it also teaches you when not to use them. It’s the same way with your training as a squire and a knight. You’re learning your powers as a warrior and a prince.”

  “But there’s one thing a prince sometimes has to do that Sunrunners are forbidden.”

  Meath nodded. “Faradh’im must never use the gift to kill. When you know and trust yourself, Pol, you won’t be afraid.” He brushed the boy’s shoulder with his fingertips, rings glinting. “Come, let’s ride on. It’s getting late.”

  They were nearly to the gates when Pol spoke again. “Meath? Did I do the right thing today?”

  “Is that for me to say, or you?”

  “I think—I think I did. No, I’m sure of it.” As they rode below the stone archway he added, “But you know, it’s the stupidest thing. I can’t stop thinking about Willa’s broken goblet.”

  They separated at the stables, Pol to report to the Master of Squires and Meath to inform Chadric and Audrite of the day’s events. Word and the prisoners had gone ahead, and Lleyn was even now interviewing the Gribain captain. Chadric’s eldest son, Ludhil, brought the ominous news that the bearded soldier had somehow managed to hang himself in his cell.

  Lleyn came into Audrite’s solar a short time later. Past eighty, frail as parchment stretched over brittle glass, he leaned on a wooden cane and refused the assistance of his son and grandson in taking a seat. Narrowing his fine, faded eyes at Meath, he folded his hands over the cane’s carved dragon’s head handle and said, “Well?”

  “From your expression, my lord, the Gribain captain knows nothing of the Merida’s origins and has nothing to say about the cause of the argument.” Meath shrugged. “I imagine she is telling the truth.”

  “I’m not interested in imagination,” Lleyn snapped. “I want to know what happened.”

  “Pol believes the Merida provoked the fight on purpose. And since he killed himself, I’d say he had something to hide.”

  “But why attempt Pol’s life now?” Chadric asked. “Surely they had plenty of chances while he still lived at Stronghold.”

  “You should pay more attention to rumors,” his father told him. As Audrite caught her breath, Lleyn nodded. “I see you’ve taken my meaning, my dear.”

  Chadric’s plain, pleasant face tightened to grimness. “If you’re talking about that possible son of Roelstra’s—”

  “He’ll be nearing twenty-one. Pol’s barely fourteen,” Lleyn remarked.

  “But it’s ludicrous!” Audrite protested. “Even if the boy is Roelstra’s, he’d have to rally all Princemarch behind him. And that won’t happen. Rohan has done well by them in making Pandsala regent—no one but a fool would trade certain prosperity for an unknown pretender.”

  “Nicely put,” Lleyn grunted, fingering the dragon’s head. “But it so happens that Rohan is an honorable fool. He’ll feel compelled to meet this young man and hear him out.”

  “No proof one way or the other,” Chadric said. “It’s all supposition.”

  Meath said, “Lack of proof makes Roelstra’s supposed son dangerous.”

  “There’s Lady Andrade,” Audrite reminded them. “She was there the night of the births.”

  “She might know what happened, and she might not,” Lleyn replied. “And for all her authority as Lady of Goddess Keep, she’s also Rohan’s aunt and not exactly an impartial witness.”

  Chadric shook his head, rising to pace the solar. “The issue isn’t the pretender’s identity, Father. It comes down to this: Does the claim of someone with Roelstra’s blood weigh more heavily than the years of good governance established by Rohan in lands he won by right of war?”

  Lleyn’s eyes sparkled. “I’m gratified to see that my training hasn’t been wasted—and that you inherited your mother’s wits as well as her eyes. You have the right of it, Chadric. Who do we support when and if it comes to it? If this youth is indeed Roelstra’s son, do we take his side and support the blood-claim that keeps all princes in power? Or do we back Rohan and the things he’s done in Princemarch?” He smiled without humor. “It’s not the kind of choice a prince finds comfortable.”

  Meath sat forward, elbows propped on his knees. “Your grace, it’s yet to be proved that the person is who some say he is. But even if he isn’t, there will be those who choose to believe—”

  “Or act as if they believe,” Lleyn agreed. “Just for the sake of making mischief. Real proof to the contrary will be needed.”

  “I see why Pol is suddenly a Merida target,” Audrite said unhappily. “Miyon of Cunaxa still shelters them, though he says he doesn’t. He’s probably behind what happened today. There’ll never be proof, of course. But without Pol to inherit Princemarch, this pretender might be welcomed outright—and Miyon would rather deal with anyone else than Rohan or his son. And I see, too, why Rohan wants the boy with him this summer and at Waes.”

  “There’s a progress planned for them to Castle Crag,” Lleyn affirmed.

  Chadric gestured the pretender away with one hand. “Once they see Pol and he wins them the way he does everyone—”

  “There’s still the matter of proving this claimant a liar,” Lleyn said. “Do you think people like Miyon will support Pol on the strength of his admittedly charming smile?”

  “It’s the people of Princemarch he’ll win,” Chadric said.

  “The people of Princemarch do not attend the Rialla and vote on who and what is the truth. Andrade is the only reliable witness and the evidence will have to come from her in a manner the princes will accept as absolute truth.”

  “There’s Pandsala,” Meath reminded them.

  “Oh, yes, Pandsala.” Lleyn snorted. “May I remind you that if this boy is acclaimed, the regent would be out of a job?” He shook his head. “I don’t like this. Not at all. Meath, before you leave Radzyn for Goddess Keep, make sure you have a long talk with Chay and Tobin.”

  Much later, in his own chambers, Meath pulled out the case made for the scrolls dug up at the ancient Sunrunner keep. They were written in the old language; though script had not changed much from modern writing, the words meant nothing to him. Yet certain words survived to the present day nearly unchanged—personal names, for instance, were usually chosen with their ancient meanings in mind—and as he unrolled one of the parchments he bit his lip. The usual sun-and-moons motif was missing from this first page. The sources of light for faradhi weavings were not depicted here as they were on all the other scrolls. This one had a different pattern, a design of nig
ht sky strewn with stars. He stared for a long time at the title that had so shocked him on first seeing it, words he had had no difficulty translating.

  On Sorceries.

  Chapter Two

  Pandsala, Regent of Princemarch and daughter of the late High Prince Roelstra, scowled at the letter on her desk and told herself that life would have been much simpler without sisters. Her father had provided her with seventeen of them. Though ten were dead now—some in the Plague of 701, others since—and good riddance, she was still left with far too many for her peace of mind.

  The survivors were a plague in themselves. Letters such as the one now before her arrived constantly here at Castle Crag; petitions for money or favors or a word in High Prince Rohan’s ear, and especially requests to be allowed a visit to their childhood home. Pandsala had spent the first five years of her regency removing her sisters from Castle Crag by various methods; she was not about to let any of them come back, not for so much as a day.

  But it was the youngest of them, the one who had never even been here, who was the focus of Pandsala’s present irritation. Chiana’s letter could not have irked her more had the girl written every word with a calculated eye to insulting her powerful half sister. She presumed an intimacy repugnant to Pandsala; she even styled herself “princess” as if her mother, Lady Palila, had been Roelstra’s wife instead of his whore. Born in Waes and raised in various places, including Goddess Keep for the first six winters of her life, Chiana evidently chose to forget that Pandsala had shared those six winters and knew every detail of her character in excruciating detail. Their rare encounters since and the letters Chiana wrote were ample evidence that maturing had not changed her. At nearly twenty-one, her haughty selfishness had grown worse. In this letter Chiana implied that if Pandsala extended an invitation to Castle Crag for the summer, Chiana might be persuaded to grace it with her presence. But Pandsala had long ago vowed that Chiana would never set foot here so long as she was the keep’s mistress.

  A few of the other sisters had shared Chiana’s rearing after Lady Andrade had flatly refused to have her back at Goddess Keep. Lady Kiele of Waes, wedded to that city’s lord, had taken the girl in at first. But she had eventually wearied of Chiana’s pretensions and packed her off to Port Adni when Princess Naydra had married Lord Narat. The island of Kierst-Isel had been an excellent place for Chiana, distance being a thing to be cherished insofar as Pandsala was concerned. Yet after a few winters even Naydra’s patience had given way. By that time Lady Rabia, Chiana’s full sister, had married Lord Patwin of Catha Heights, and the pair had invited the homeless girl to live with them. Rabia’s death in childbed had ended Chiana’s time in Catha Heights, and she had lived in Waes again for a time before Kiele had caught her trying to seduce Lord Lyell. It had been back to Naydra, from whose seaside residence she now wrote.

  Pandsala looked sourly at the royal title and thick flourish of ink Chiana used as her signature. She knew very well why the girl wanted to come to Castle Crag—so that at summer’s end, she would naturally become part of Padsala’s suite at the Rialla, with access to all the princes and their unmarried heirs. Landless though she was, she would yet have a considerable dowry from Rohan, as had all the sisters who had chosen to marry, and her beauty alone would make her a desirable match. But Pandsala was damned if she’d lend her own countenance to her loathsome little sister.

  She penned a brief, firm denial, then scrawled her own titles and signature. Leaning back in her chair, she contemplated the words that meant her power and thought of her other surviving sisters. She and Naydra were the only ones left of the four daughters born to Roelstra and his only wife. Lenala had died of Plague and Ianthe was dead at Feruche Castle these fourteen years. Foolish, harmless Lenala and beautiful, brilliant, ruthless Ianthe; they represented the extremes found in Roelstra’s offspring. The other surviving daughters all fell someplace in between. Kiele was a fool, but not harmless—nor, fortunately, ruthless enough to be any real danger.

  Naydra was intelligent enough to have schooled herself to acceptance of her lot. Pandsala suspected she was even happy as Narat’s wife. Chiana, on the other hand, was beautiful, brilliant, and a constant irritant. As for the others—Pandsala could barely remember what they looked like. Moria lived placidly on a manor in the Veresch foothills; Moswen divided her time between a townhouse in Einar and visiting Kiele in Waes and Danladi, Roelstra’s daughter by Lady Aladra, at High Kirat. Fourteen years ago at Stronghold, when Rohan had been acclaimed High Prince, Danladi had become friendly with Princess Gemma, last of her branch of the Syrene royal house since her brother Jastri’s death. Prince Davvi had taken his young cousin under his protection and Danladi had become part of Gemma’s suite. But whatever the rest of Roelstra’s daughters were doing, thinking, or thinking of doing, Pandsala knew she could safely ignore them. They each had a share of beauty and a modicum of intelligence, but none of them was a threat.

  And Pandsala herself? She smiled slightly and shrugged. Neither as beautiful nor as clever as Ianthe, she was nevertheless far from stupid and had learned many things in her years as regent. She wondered if her dead sister, in whatever hell she surely inhabited now, could see Pandsala’s current position and influence. Pandsala hoped so. The knowledge would torment Ianthe more than anything else that could be devised for her punishment.

  Pandsala’s dark eyes squeezed shut, her fingers curving into claws at the thought of Ianthe, for all that her ruin at her sister’s hands was over twenty years past and she had long since tasted her revenge. Their father’s last mistress, Palila, had been pregnant and due to deliver sometime after the Rialla of 698. But just in case she was early, three other child-heavy women had been brought along—for Ianthe planned that if Palila delivered the precious male heir, then a girl born to one of the others would be substituted. At least, that had been the plot outlined to Pandsala.

  Rising from her desk, she went to the windows and stared across the narrow canyon gouged out of the mountains by the Faolain River. She could hear the rush of water far below, but no sound of the keep’s daily life reached her in this aerie. Gradually she calmed down enough to recall the past without succumbing to blind fury, and even with something resembling dispassion.

  Most people would have said she deserved what she had received that night long ago. She had promised Palila that if yet another girl was born, she would find a way to substitute a boy birthed by one of the servant women, who would be drugged into early labor. Roelstra would have his long-desired heir, Palila would be the all-powerful mother of that heir, and Pandsala would have first place in the pursuit of young Prince Rohan. Both plots had been insane gambles based solely on the sexes of unborn children. So insane, in fact, that Ianthe had had no trouble denouncing Pandsala to their father the night of Chiana’s birth. Clever, ruthless Ianthe—Pandsala could still see her smile as Roelstra condemned his newborn daughter and Pandsala to the exile of Goddess Keep. Ianthe had been rewarded with the important border castle of Feruche.

  But the real irony was not Pandsala’s discovery of her faradhi talents under Andrade’s tutelage, nor even her present position of power. The laughable part was that only moments after Ianthe had betrayed her, a boy had indeed been born to one of the servant women. Had the timing been just a little better, Pandsala would have been the victor, not Ianthe.

  Her gaze went to her hands and the five rings of her earned Sunrunner rank. Another ring set with topaz and amethyst symbolized her regency. The golden stone of the Desert shone brighter and more compelling in the sunlight than did Princemarch’s dark purple gem. And that was how it should be, she told herself.

  Her lack of filial devotion to her dead father’s aims troubled her as little as her lack of sisterly affection. Years ago she had accepted a charge from the man who might have been her husband, on behalf of the boy who might have been her son. Her life had found focus when Rohan made her Pol’s regent. For them she governed sternly and well; for them she had made this land a model of
law and prosperity; for them she had learned how to be a prince. For them, anything.

  She returned to her desk and sealed the letter to Chiana, watching her rings gleam. She alone of all Roelstra’s daughters had inherited the gift; it ran not through his line but that of her mother, Princess Lallante, his only wife. Had Ianthe been similarly gifted—Pandsala shuddered, even at this late date. Ianthe with Sunrunner powers would have been well-nigh invincible.

  But Ianthe was dead, and Pandsala was here, alive, and second among women only to the High Princess herself. She remembered then that she had a report to write to Sioned, and forgot Chiana, her other half sisters, and the past.

  Lady Kiele of Waes was also at her desk that evening, and also considering the gift Pandsala possessed and she did not. Kiele did the best with what she had—but how much more she could have done had she the ability to weave the sunlight and see what others might not wish seen.

  Smoothing the folds of a gown made of green-gold tissue, she consoled herself with what she did possess. But in a short while she would preside over a dinner for Prince Clutha, in Waes to discuss arrangements for this year’s Rialla, arrangements that would nearly bankrupt her and Lyell. Again. Clutha had never forgiven Lyell for siding with Roelstra during the war with the Desert, and all these years of being watched and suspected had not been amusing. Clutha had hit on the idea that making Waes pay the entire expense of the triennial gathering would keep its lord and lady too short of funds to work mischief elsewhere. Treading the extremely narrow path their overlord had decreed kept Kiele in a near-constant state of nerves. Lyell, however, never seemed to mind. He hadn’t enough wits to mind; he was too busy being grateful that he still possessed his life, let alone his city.