Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll

by Melanie Rawn

  As Pol listened, it had become clear that his own father was surrounded by people of differing viewpoints who never hesitated to speak their minds. Pol hoped that when it came his turn, he would hear the same advice as freely given. Moreover, Rohan was in complete control of the debate, though he rarely spoke and then only to steer the conversation back to its major concerns. The decisions would be his alone, and everyone knew it. They would argue their own points of view, but it never occurred to any of these powerful people to question Rohan’s authority. Pol was awed by this quiet proof of his father’s power.

  The calling-up of the Desert levies and selected troops from Princemarch had been deliberately casual, designed to alarm no one. Chay explained it as an exercise that would acquaint soldiers from both princedoms with each other’s techniques. He proposed that the following year a similar exercise might take place in the mountains so that troops accustomed to the Desert could get a feel for what another kind of warfare might be like.

  Skybowl was not equipped to support a large influx of troops, and thus an assembly point had been established at the old garrison below the ruins of Feruche Castle. Pol looked on the map at each Desert holding and the places from which the soldiers of Princemarch would be called, and whistled under his breath at the total of three hundred foot, half that number of archers, and two hundred horse. “Enough to be impressive, but not quite enough to provoke,” had been Maarken’s conclusion.

  Pol could imagine the camp that would soon be set upon the rocky plain outside Tiglath’s walls. Tents, cook-fires, the spears and swords of the foot soldiers leaning outside the tents in deadly array; horses picketed within easy reach of their riders; bows unstrung and arrows kept carefully in leather quivers. The double-tailed battle flags of all the Desert holdings would be presided over by Walvis’ blue-and-white banner with a golden dragon atop the staff that signified his status as the High Prince’s commander in the north. Princemarch’s violet would be in evidence, too, with the Desert blue atop it. There would be marching and swordplay, competitions between archers, riders practicing the charges and maneuvers necessary in war. All of it called out to a boy’s restless imagination, making him yearn to go and watch even if he could not really be a part of it as a working soldier.

  Pol sighed. Almost everyone had ridden out with Walvis and Skybowl’s levy. Rohan and Chay would return in ten days or so after showing support for Walvis and meeting with some of the people from Princemarch. Ostvel would be gone longer on a visit to Lord Abidias of Tuath, then swing back by Tiglath and bring word of the camp to Rohan at Skybowl. Only a fraction of the troops available from the Desert and Princemarch would take the field for maneuvers, but Pol desperately wanted just a glimpse of what was going on.

  A rebellious part of him said that if he wanted to look, he could. He was a Sunrunner—not trained yet, of course, but he knew he could weave the light if he tried, glide along its pathways to Tiglath. And oh, how he wanted to—but he didn’t let himself think about it too much. He had responsibilities. He could not do it. But he wanted to.

  His finger drew little circles on the map as he vowed that once he was older, no one would be able to make him stay put when he wanted to be somewhere else. At least if he was denied the fun and excitement of the summer’s encampment, he would be doing something almost as interesting. His finger left Tiglath and touched the little symbol indicating the location of Castle Crag, high in the Veresch on the Faolain River.

  There was no definite route planned for the progress. They would wander as fancy took them. The only certainty on their itinerary was that Princess Pandsala expected them at Castle Crag in time for a long visit before going to Waes and the Rialla. Pol had seen the Veresch Mountains from a great distance, faraway purple peaks crowned in white snow—an element he wasn’t entirely sure he believed in. Dorval’s mountainous region never saw snow. He had almost decided that seeing such marvels as pine forests, lakes, meadows, wide rivers, and especially snow was as good as spending the summer soldiering.

  “Here you are!”

  Pol looked up. Sionell had a positively uncanny knack for finding him. “Good afternoon,” he said politely.

  “Jahnavi and I are going riding. Do you want to come?”

  “No, but thank you for asking.”

  Sionell gave a shrug and sat in a nearby chair. “Why is Riyan a Sunrunner if his father isn’t?”

  “For the same reason Maarken is and his father isn’t.”

  “Or you and your father,” she said, nodding. “Does it always come from the mother’s side?”

  “Nobody knows where it comes from.” He began rolling up the map. “My grandmother’s father was faradhi, even though he was never trained, and his wife didn’t show any signs of it at all. One of their children was Lady Andrade, who’s more powerful than anybody—and the other was my grandmother, Princess Milar.”

  “And Princess Tobin is, but your father isn’t. And her children are, and aren’t. It’s very confusing!” She smiled. “You are, though. Do you think you’ll be as good at it as your mother is?”

  “I hope so.”

  “I’d like to be a Sunrunner and touch a dragon.”

  “That’s not what being a Sunrunner is about.” He got to his feet, the map back in its case. “Being a faradhi is—”

  She interrupted, “But you want to touch a dragon on sunlight, don’t you?”

  Pol turned away from the shrewd blue eyes. “None of your business,” he muttered.

  “You do, too. I can tell. I know all kinds of things about you that you don’t want me to know.”

  “Such as?” He swung around.

  Sionell gave him a pert grin. “I’m not telling!”

  “You’d better!”

  She jumped up from the chair and ran laughing out the door. Pol dropped the map and raced after her, catching up on the stairs. He made a grab for her elbow but she eluded him.

  “Sionell! Tell me!”

  “I won’t—not until you promise to come riding with us!”

  “You are the most impossible brat ever born!”

  “I’m not a brat!”

  “You are, too. And see if I care about things you probably don’t know, anyway.” He turned to go back to his room.

  “Pol—I do know something! I know that you want to touch the dragons so you can talk to them and tell them it’s safe to go back to Rivenrock!”

  He whirled and stared at her. “How did you know that?”

  “Because it’s exactly what I’d do if I was a Sunrunner.”

  He looked down at her pudgy little face, the beginnings of respect sneaking up on him. “Would you? Do you understand about the dragons?”

  “My mother’s been studying dragons for years and years. She knows more about them than anybody. We talk about dragons all the time.”

  Pol heard himself say, “There’s a lot I don’t know about them. Maybe you could teach me.”

  Sionell glowed with happiness for a moment, then recalled her pride and looked down at her toes, kicking at the step above her. “Maybe I could—if you’re nicer to me. You’re really a pain sometimes, you know that?”

  “Sorry.” He tried to think up something else to say. She saved him the necessity by smiling shyly up at him. Someday, he thought unexpectedly, she might even turn out to be pretty. Even more surprisingly, he was about to tell her so when the walls of Skybowl shuddered. “What in all hells is that?” he blurted.

  “Listen.”

  “Are the dragons fighting again?”

  “Can’t you hear the difference?” she scoffed.

  “They don’t sound angry,” he ventured.

  “Of course not. They’re mating.”

  Sioned and Maarken had spent the last two days with Feylin, who was in the lengthy process of dissecting the dragon. At first the bloody project made both Sunrunners a little ill. Fascination soon replaced squeamishness. And, too, there was something exquisite about the fit of bone to bone, the discovery of how muscles wor
ked, the elegant configurations of flight, that overcame a tendency to queasy stomachs.

  Feylin had a sincere respect for dragons and regretted violating this one in death. But her curiosity was stronger. She reported her findings to two scribes, each of whom relied on Sioned’s memory to supply what they sometimes missed. Maarken skillfully produced drawings as Feylin dictated to the scribes. His renditions of the delicate interlinking of muscle and bone in the wings were works of art. Other servants were busy building a rocky pyre for the dragon’s remains, which were placed there when Feylin was done describing them and Maarken had finished his drawings.

  “The brain is twice the size of ours, but without so many curves and ridges to it,” she reported, holding the mass of gray material in both hands. “It’s also much larger in the back where it meets the spine, and not as developed in the front regions—”

  “Wait,” Sioned protested. “When did you ever see a human brain?”

  Feylin cleared her throat and looked guilty. “Well . . . my mother was a physician. She liked to find out how things worked.”

  “But how—?”

  “One day she found a man lying dead in the hills—there wasn’t any way to identify him, no one to claim him—we gave him a decent burning afterward,” she finished defensively.

  Maarken glanced up from his sketchpad, eyes wide. Sioned gulped, shook her head, and murmured, “I’m sorry I asked. Go on, Feylin.”

  Brain, eyes, tongue, teeth, nasal structure—all of it was measured and defined for the scribes and then placed before Maarken to be drawn. Over the last two days Feylin had systematically examined the huge corpse—legs, stomach, lungs, wings, chest cavity, and heart. One of the scribes, who had lasted through a detailed description of the dragon’s last meal after an exploration of the stomach’s contents, finally balked at a lengthy discourse on the eyes. He threw down his parchment and pen, staggered over to the lake, and was violently sick. Sioned took his place, scribbling for all she was worth, and told herself firmly that High Princesses did not throw up in public.

  “Maarken, you’re as green-faced as a pregnant girl,” Feylin said suddenly.

  “There’s blood and then there’s blood,” he said. “It’s different from battle blood.”

  “Carving up a dragon for study is worse than carving up your enemies?”

  “It’s different,” he maintained stubbornly.

  “He has a point, you know,” Sioned observed. “How would you like it if somebody sliced you up into your component parts?”

  “I’d mind plenty if I was still alive! Once I’m dead, what does it matter? I have no more use for my body, after all, once I’m gone from it.” Feylin placed the last section of skull on the blanket before Maarken, stretched, and went to crouch beside Sioned. “Anyway, this chance was too good to pass up.”

  “But it seems so—” She ended with a helpless shrug.

  “How else do we learn? My mother wasn’t the only physician who investigated human corpses, you know. Does a dead body mind the flames we light around it? Would it mind being poked around in?”

  “Just the same, I don’t want anybody doing that to me,” Sioned told her.

  “What if we learn something from this dragon that helps us understand the whole race better?”

  “Oh, I’m not arguing with you, Feylin. And I did volunteer to help. But I’m afraid I can’t look at it quite as calmly as you can.”

  “I think I know why,” Maarken said. “This really isn’t any different from carving up any animal we use as food. But Sioned and I have touched dragon colors. The only other creatures we can do that with are humans. And that’s what makes it different.”

  By late afternoon they were finished, and flasks of perfumed oil were poured over the dismembered corpse. Sioned and Maarken together summoned Fire to set the remains alight, and the flames brought forth a spicy-sweet odor. The scribes and workers returned gratefully to Skybowl, leaving Sioned, Feylin, and Maarken to watch the dragon burn.

  When the mating howls split the sky, all three jumped. Feylin, whose respect for dragons included a healthy fear of them, turned white; Sioned took her arm in support.

  “They’re only mating. You’ve heard that before.”

  “And it affects me the same way every time. It’s ridiculous,” she said nervously. “I can study them, count them, watch them—even cut one up to find out how he works. But something about their voices twists me up inside.” She gave another start and flinched as a flight of three-year-olds burst over the southern rim of the crater. “Sweet Goddess!”

  Sioned’s eye was caught instantly by the little reddish female with golden underwings, the dragon she had attempted to touch before. The group had come back to the lake for another drink; neither the mating cries nor the burning corpse seemed to affect them at all. They were not old enough to comprehend or be interested in the former, and as for the latter—it was almost as if with his death, the dragon sire had been erased from their memories. Knowing she was being fanciful by projecting human emotion onto dragons, Sioned still found it incredibly sad.

  Her promise to Rohan flickered across her mind and she glanced at Maarken. He returned her gaze speculatively, then nodded. Sioned made certain Feylin was all right, then went to her nephew.

  “Back me up,” was all she said, and at once felt the powerful sun-weaving of a trained, disciplined faradhi mind. His colors of ruby, amber, and diamond created a strong spectrum with her own emerald, sapphire, amber, and onyx, and the separate patterns complemented each other, her own dominant as she’d asked.

  But the brilliance of their colors was as nothing to the swirling hues into which Sioned was abruptly plunged with her first tentative brush against the dragon. Rainbows rioted in her mind and she reeled with the impact, each color repeated in hundreds of shades, each carrying a sound, a vision, an impression or memory or instinct—far too much for her to grasp, let alone assimilate into recognizable form. The sheer glut of colors staggered her; the information attached to them nearly shattered her mind. Vaguely, through the rainbow storm, she sensed the dragon’s withdrawal from her. Then she fainted.

  “Sioned!” Maarken flung his arms around her to keep her upright, terrified by her ashen cheeks and lolling head. Well-honed skills kept her colors in strict pattern, retrieved and reformed before she fainted; there was no danger of her becoming shadow-lost. But this blank unconsciousness unnerved him.

  Shaking and white-faced, Feylin helped him lower her to the ground. “Maarken, what the hell happened?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see anything or touch the dragon myself—I don’t know what she saw or felt.” He cupped her head in one hand, slapped her cheeks gently with the other. “Sioned!”

  “It can’t be too bad, can it? She didn’t scream like last time. Neither did the dragon.” She unhooked a waterskin from her belt—that item Desert dwellers never forgot to carry no matter where they were—and made Sioned drink. The princess choked slightly, but other than a reflexive swallow she showed no signs of awakening.

  Maarken saw a quick shadow and looked up. The other dragons had flown, but the reddish female remained, her underwings gleaming as she circled over the pyre. She called out, a soft whine of distress, and darted down for a closer look before rising to fly tight circles above them, whimpering.

  “She’s worried about Sioned,” Feylin whispered. “Is that possible?”

  Sioned stirred at last, shifting groggily. She made a vague warding-off gesture with one hand, then opened her eyes.

  “How do you feel?” Maarken asked anxiously.

  “I have a headache that goes clear down to my feet. Maarken—”

  “You don’t remember, do you?”

  “Is there something I ought to?” She frowned.

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t close enough with you to see it myself. But you touched that dragon, Sioned. You must have.”

  “I did?” She sat up and hugged her knees to her chest. “I remember wanting to, and ask
ing you to back me up, but after that—”

  “I think we’d better get you to the keep and into bed,” Feylin told her.

  Sioned groaned as they helped her to stand. “Goddess! I feel as if I’ve been out in the Long Sand through a whole autumn’s worth of storms.” She looked up suddenly as the dragon called out. “She’s still here!”

  They watched the dragon fly low over the lake, sweeping close enough to approach Sioned and look on her with wide, fine dark eyes. She trumpeted again, a single silvery note that echoed around the crater as she flew off into the Desert.

  Feylin exchanged glances with Maarken and said, “I heard it in her voice.”

  He nodded. “I think I even saw it in her eyes. She’s glad Sioned’s all right, and now she can go back to the others.” He regarded his aunt with thoughtful eyes. “Whatever happened between you, I’d say you’ve made a friend.”

  Chapter Eleven

  In 701, the year of the Plague, the seaside residence of Waes’ lords had been turned into a hospital for the sick. By midsummer it had become a mausoleum. The unburied dead rotted in chambers and corridors for lack of persons brave enough to risk infection by entering the building. One of the last acts of old Lord Jervis’ life had been to order his palace burned, both to honor the dead and to prevent further contagion from spreading into the city itself. He had died on the very day of the blaze, and his corpse had been carried from the house in which his family had taken refuge to the fine old residence overlooking the sea, there to burn with his palace and his people.

  His widow had moved her surviving family into a home in the city when the danger had passed. Over the intervening years, Lord Lyell had taken over houses on either side of the first one, knocking down walls to run rooms and gardens together, adding new partitions and odd staircases and sloping ramps to connect the various levels. The residence became a habitable if eccentric composition of some thirty rooms on five different levels. It had neither the elegance nor the splendor of the seaside palace, but it possessed a decided advantage in its ugliness insofar as Lady Kiele was concerned. There were more exits than anyone could keep track of, and that suited her very well.