Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll

by Melanie Rawn

  “When I find any, I pluck them out.”

  “If I did the same, I’d be going bald. Give me the pins and hold still.” He wrapped the braid into a smooth roll and kissed the nape of her neck before securing the knot with plain silver hairpins. “There. Go take a look.”

  She went to the dressing table mirror and nodded. “If you ever get tired of being a prince, I’ll hire you on as my maid. This isn’t half bad. And as for going gray—all you’re doing is turning silvery instead of golden. I didn’t know you were so vain.”

  He grinned. “I only say things like that so you can be a good, dutiful wife and compliment me.” Throwing the sheet over the parchments, he got to his feet and stretched. Running his fingers back through his hair, he yawned widely and stretched again—not quite preening under her gaze.

  “Your good, dutiful wife begs to remind you we have work to do this morning,” Sioned told him.

  “We do?” He looked over his shoulder at the bed. “I remember some reports, but they seem to have vanished.”

  She chuckled. “Has anyone ever told you you’re impossible?”

  “Yes. You. Constantly.” He approached and untied the belt of her robe. “Get dressed. The hatchling will be here before we know it.”

  But the party from Radzyn was late. Rohan and Sioned waited in the Great Hall and Sioned resumed her pacing, boot heels clicking on the blue and green tiled floor. Rohan sprawled in a window embrasure near the squires’ table and watched her, vastly entertained by her impatience. He, too, was anxious to see his son, but some perversity of his temperament decreed that the more she fidgeted, the more he relaxed.

  A servant finally arrived with the news that the young master’s party had been spotted from the Flametower, and Sioned flung a guilty look at Rohan. Her expression saved him the trouble of asking who had posted a lookout way up there. She smoothed her hair and straightened her clothes, taking in a deep breath before walking through the huge carved doors held open for the High Prince and High Princess. Rohan surveyed his wife with a smile, thinking that lovely as she could be in full dress and his emeralds, nothing suited her so well as riding clothes cut to emphasize her slim, long-legged figure. Well, he amended, either riding clothes or nothing at all except the masses of her unbound hair.

  They stood together on the top step of the porch, Sioned rigid with nerves. Rohan noted the growing excitement among their people gathered in the courtyard below. The grooms were still arguing over who would have the honor of holding Pol’s reins as he dismounted; the cooks muttered about which of them had remembered his favorite foods, a conflict Rohan had thought settled days ago. Stronghold’s guard lined up in strict formation, their commander, Maeta, brushing imaginary dirt from spotless blue tunics and gleaming half-harness. All this for one boy, Rohan marveled, conveniently forgetting that he had received just the same welcome home from his training at Remagev. He heard the shouted query from the gatehouse that demanded to know who wished entry into Stronghold. He could not hear the answer, but knew what Chay’s reply would be: “His Royal Highness the Prince Pol, heir to the Desert and Princemarch!” Pride welled up in Rohan; he would give his son half the continent, from the Sunrise Water to the Great Veresch. He would also give him laws to rule those lands in peace, the power to enforce the laws, and faradhi gifts to keep it all safe. He glanced at Sioned, who had kept him safe for twenty-one winters—half his life. She had used her skills and wisdom on his behalf, and to hell with Andrade’s disapproval. Together they were the perfect team. Pol would have Rohan’s power and knowledge combined with Sioned’s Sunrunner gifts. Never mind that she had not physically borne him.

  Instinct told him that he had hit on the cause of her uneasiness. Had there been more time, he would have found a way to laugh her out of it. Pol was her son as much as his, and certainly more than he had ever been Ianthe’s. Thought of the dead princess tightened Rohan’s shoulders; he consciously relaxed and took Sioned’s hand. Whatever her outward demeanor he could always tell what she was truly feeling when he touched her. The long fingers quivered just a little, chilled despite the spring warmth, and responded to his gentle squeeze not at all. Was she afraid that in growing up, Pol had grown away from her? Did she not yet understand that her claim on him through love was infinitely stronger than any claim of blood?

  The gates of the inner court opened and the riders came through, Pol first as was proper for a young lord returning home. Chay, Tobin, and Maarken followed with ten soldiers. But Rohan had eyes for no one but his son. Pol rode forward to the steps amid the cheers of his people, and gave his parents a formal bow from the saddle.

  Rohan and Sioned answered the salute with regal nods and suppressed smiles at Pol’s youthful solemnity. From a corner of his eye Rohan saw Chay grin and Tobin’s eyes roll skyward. He sternly refrained from winking at them. As Pol dismounted, Rohan descended the steps with his wife at his side.

  “Welcome home, my son,” he said, and Pol gave him another ceremonious bow. Lleyn and Chadric had certainly taught him pretty manners—but, judging from the smile that suddenly transformed his whole face, they had not done so at the expense of his spirit. It remained only to see if he could abandon formality in the presence of the castlefolk, who had known him all his life and were just as proud and amused as his parents.

  Pol passed the test. Royal manners disposed of, he bounded up the steps into his mother’s open arms. Sioned hugged him close, then released him so he could embrace his father. Mussing his son’s dark blond hair, Rohan grinned down at him.

  “I thought we’d never get here!” Pol exclaimed. “I’m sorry we’re so late, Mother, but Maarken wanted to chase down a sand-buck—we lost him in Rivenrock, though.”

  “Too bad,” Sioned sympathized. “Perhaps we can go after him tomorrow. You look thirsty enough to have been out hunting all day. Shall we go in and have something cool to drink?”

  “May I have some time to greet everyone first? And I should take care of my horse, too. Uncle Chay gave her to me for the summer, and I get to ride her to the Rialla!”

  Rohan nodded permission and Pol ran off. His pride in the boy knew no limits now. Stronghold had seen the changes in Pol’s appearance and behavior, every bit the proper young prince. Now his instincts told him to reestablish the friendships of his childhood. Rohan wondered if Pol knew what made him do it and what the outcome would be, then decided he did not. The actions were all the more engaging for their genuineness and spontaneity.

  Chay had dismounted and was approaching the steps, wearing a devilish grin as he made Rohan a low, elaborate bow of homage. Rohan snorted.

  “Don’t you start!”

  “I thought only to follow your son’s excellent example, my prince,” Chay responded. “And if you’ll forgive my humble self and my insignificant son, we’ll follow the rest of Pol’s example and tend our horses. With your gracious leave, my prince?”

  “Get out of here, you great idiot,” Tobin scolded, swatting him on the seat as she passed him on the steps.

  Rohan looked around for Pol. The boy was in the center of a knot of chattering, teasing soldiers, archers, grooms, maidservants—even Rohan’s chief steward, who evidently felt he should be attending the young master rather than the older one. Rohan shook his head ruefully as he hugged his sister, slightly bemused by the hitherto unrealized power of his son’s charm. But as Tobin kissed Sioned and they went inside, she set him right about things.

  “He’s exactly like you at that age,” his sister informed him. “I swear to you, he had everyone at Radzyn ready to battle dragons for him, and I can’t imagine he left Graypearl behind him much different.”

  “At a little less than his age,” Rohan reminded her, “I was acting as go-between for a certain princess and her intended lord. Midnight meetings, secret afternoons—is Pol accomplished at that, too?”

  Tobin had the grace to blush, even at her age. “I don’t know, but if he is I’ll wager he’s not half as clumsy about it as you were! I lost te
n years off my life that time Father caught me with Chay!”

  “That wasn’t my fault,” Rohan protested. “And you were only found the once, of all the hundreds of times—”

  “Hundreds! Listen to him!” She stepped back on the coolness of the foyer and inspected them both. “Rohan, you’ve been eating. I don’t believe it.”

  Sioned chuckled. “One of the privileges of encroaching middle age is getting fat.”

  “I am not,” Rohan said. He pinched Tobin’s waist that was still as firm as a young girl’s. “You don’t seem to have taken advantage of it.”

  “If she did,” Chay said from the open doorway, “I’d throw her in my dungeon and starve her. Sioned, you’re more beautiful than ever—as always.” He kissed her, then paused a moment and kissed her again for good measure. “What’s all this about middle age? And as for you—” He clasped Rohan’s shoulders in both strong hands and grinned. “You could still hide behind your swordblade. Why am I the only one getting older?”

  Sioned’s brows arched. “The mere sight of you sends every woman at Stronghold into a flutter, and you ask that?”

  “I adore this woman,” he sighed happily. “But it’s not me, it’s Maarken. Do you know he’s asked for Whitecliff to be redone this summer?”

  “Oho!” Sioned laughed. “Do I detect grandchildren soon?” Catching sight of Maarken in the doorway, crimson to his earlobes, she beckoned him over for an embrace. “Not another word about it, I promise.”

  “Thank you,” he said feelingly. “Pol wants us to go upstairs without him. He’ll be along in a little while. Myrdal’s got hold of him.”

  Tobin nodded and started up the main staircase. “And she won’t be giving him up for the time it takes us to discuss the danger he’s in.”

  The warmth of the family reunion turned to chill silence. Several steps above them now, Tobin sighed, turned, and shrugged an apology.

  “It has to be talked about. Come on, all of you.”

  Rohan, in an attempt to recapture a little of the former mood as they followed her, whispered loudly to Chay, “Why is it she can make me feel like a guest in my own castle?”

  “Better a guest than a servant,” Chay responded philosophically. “You should see what she does to lords and princes foolish enough to invite us for a hunting party or a harvest festival.”

  “I’ve seen, thanks—every three years at the Rialla. She and I had the same parents and the same upbringing, Chay—why can she do it when I can’t?”

  Tobin had reached the landing by now and glanced over her shoulder. “Oh, poor, awkward, tongue-tied High Prince,” she scoffed. “You do it, too—only you realize it as little as Pol does.”

  When Rohan had assumed the title of High Prince, the number of people coming and going at Stronghold multiplied fourfold. Ambassadors from other princedoms arrived with increasing frequency and stayed longer, although Rohan refused to keep the kind of permanent court Roelstra had established at Castle Crag. Sioned’s skills as a Sunrunner made resident representatives unnecessary; she could communicate more swiftly and effectively to faradh’im at other courts than messages could go back and forth via couriers. Moreover, the interplay between Sunrunners was brief and to the point, unlike the endless civilities and obfuscations by which officials justified their existence. The lack of a formal court was a relief to both Rohan and Sioned. During Pol’s childhood especially they had wanted to preserve some semblance of family life despite their exalted position.

  Nevertheless, emissaries still came and went, and it had been necessary to modify Stronghold to accommodate the increased traffic. Sometimes every chamber, anteroom, and even the hallways were jammed full of people who had had the misfortune to arrive all at the same time. If there were complaints, Sioned never heard them. She never apologized, either, for the inconvenience. She looked on anyone but her family and close friends as interlopers in her home: tolerated, fed, and conversed with, but encouraged to leave as soon as they had finished their business. Rohan’s mother, Princess Milar, had changed Stronghold from warrior’s fortress into family dwelling; Sioned had no intention of its becoming a court that functioned only for the comfort and ease of outsiders.

  Rohan had insisted on one thing, however. There was a large, formal audience chamber directly off the main foyer, but it was much too grand for confidential talks in a relaxed atmosphere. He had therefore claimed a smaller and less formal room within the precincts of their own suite. In the downstairs chamber the floor was bare, the few chairs were uncushioned, and one wall was covered with a huge tapestry of Stronghold itself in an unsubtle reminder of the keep’s strength and its rulers’ powers. But upstairs a gorgeous Cunaxan rug covered the stone floor in restful colors of green, blue, and white; the seating was casual and plentiful; smaller tapestries depicted the Vere Hills in spring bloom. The windows overlooked the courtyard where castlefolk went about their business and provided a pleasant background noise. In this beautiful room many profitable discussions had taken place between Rohan and his athr’im or the officials sent by one prince or another to talk over problems.

  As her family arranged themselves on sofas and chairs, Sioned signaled the servants to provide everyone with cool wine and then withdraw. A cup was left for Pol on the side table. Sioned hoped he would take his time; there could be no discussion of danger with him in the room. Not that concern for his safety would frighten him; quite the opposite. He would instead try to find ways of giving everyone the slip to escape the oppressive sense of being watched—thereby increasing the danger.

  “With your permission,” Chay said to Rohan, although his expression implied that the request was a mere formality and he would do as he planned with or without permission, “I’ll set Maarken as Pol’s guardian on this Princemarch trip. He ought to get some experience of the place, anyway. Not only for his own education but with an eye to its military layout—if you plan to make him Pol’s field commander eventually, that it.”

  “It’s become one of Radzyn’s duties by now,” Rohan replied. “Maarken merits the position by training and wits as well as birth.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” the young man responded.

  “It’ll be a long while before your father gives up his post, though—despite his advancing old age. I assume there’s more, Tobin.”

  “Of course.” She tucked one booted foot beneath her, careless of the velvet upholstery. “I’m worried about what Meath told us regarding this supposed son of Roelstra’s. It didn’t bother me before—the claim is absurd, after all—but the boy might become an annoyance through those who are foolish enough to support him for whatever reasons of their own. It’ll be difficult to tell if they truly believe in his claim or if they’re only pretending to believe for the trouble it’ll cause. What do you plan to do about him, Rohan?”

  “Nothing. Not directly anyway. If I even admit that the problem exists, I lend credence to the rumors, you see. Our visit to Princemarch will do more to squelch the hopes of this pretender than anything else. I’m taking enough swords with me to show strength, but only as many as are proper for a royal party. Besides, we’ve been planning the trip for a long while, before these rumors really got started. So it won’t seem as if this is a deliberate bid for the area’s support.”

  Tobin nodded her approval. “A hasty journey, previously unannounced, would be taken as a sign of worry and weakness.” She sipped at her wine, then nodded again. “With Maarken along to keep close watch on Pol without his knowing it, he’ll be in a position to learn all he can about Princemarch just in case it comes to a fight.”

  “There will be no war.”

  Rohan said it softly, but the words were all the more potent for the quiet of his voice.

  His sister’s black brows slanted down. “If it’s necessary, you’ll fight. Whatever pretty notions you have about honor and law, there are times when steel is the only answer. You know that as well as I. And Pol’s training will make sure he knows it, too.”

  “He wi
ll not live by the sword as our father did.”

  If Tobin heard the warning in his voice, she ignored it. “Don’t be a fool. I’m not saying Pol ought to enjoy war the way Father did. I’m saying that at times a prince has to fight or he’s no longer a prince.”

  Rohan met her gaze calmly. “You’re correct, Tobin. No longer a prince, but a barbarian. And that is what I intend my son to learn, much less painfully than I did.”

  Into the awkward silence that followed came Pol, all fair hair and bright eye and limitless energy. His excited smile died away as he slammed up against the room’s tension. After a swift inspection of each face, he said, “I can always tell when you’ve been talking about me—you all stop talking.”

  The peevish tone hit Rohan all wrong. “Perhaps if you knocked at a door and waited for permission to enter, we’d be able to change the subject gracefully.”

  Pol blinked and turned crimson. Sioned cast a disgusted glance at her husband and rose. “Come have something to drink,” she said to her son.

  He followed her to the side table readily enough, but once there he asked, “Is he angry at me?”

  “No, hatchling.”

  “I’m not a baby, Mother. When is everybody going to stop treating me like a child?”

  “You were a child when you left us. We’re just not used to you yet.”

  “Well, I’ve grown up,” he stated flatly. “I don’t need to be protected. What could be so awful that you have to stop talking about it when I come into a room?”

  Sioned bit her lip. In trying to mend the damage of Rohan’s flash of temper, she had only made things worse. Her hand moved toward Pol’s shoulder, fell back. He was so different, this youth who had returned in place of her little boy, adult lines of cheek and jaw showing in his face now, adult perceptions in his eyes. An ache tightened her throat. She wanted her child back. But Pol was right; he was no longer a child. Yet there were things he must not know—and one truth from which he must be protected as long as possible. If she could not hold onto his love and trust now, when he finally found it out she might lose him forever.