Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll

by Melanie Rawn

  “My lord,” Pandsala began.

  “No.” He glanced briefly at her, then at the pathetic heap of gray-black ash on the stones. “Not now.” He walked slowly down the spiraling stairs to the main part of the castle, his goal the crystalline oratory sparkling in the sunlight. The etched and faceted glass threw rainbows over the white carpet and furnishings, across gold and silver on the table. Rohan went to the far wall and sank to the floor, legs folded up, spine pressed against the stone where it merged with clear crystal. From here he could see the cliffs and watch his son’s progress down the canyon road and know that Pol was safe.

  For how long?

  Rohan bent his head, covering his face with his hands. What good was all his power if he could not protect his son? He ought to crush the Merida now, and Prince Miyon of Cunaxa as well for giving them shelter. Tobin would see this assassination attempt as the perfect excuse for invasion, even better than a Cunaxan encroachment onto Fironese soil. Why couldn’t Rohan do it?

  And there was more he ought to do. Accept the Fironese invitation and claim the princedom now. Order his wife’s brother Davvi to have the heiress Gemma instantly married to either of his sons, thereby securing part of Pol’s future through his kinsmen. No, Rohan reminded himself dully. Not kinsmen. Sioned was not Pol’s blood mother.

  Ianthe was. Ianthe, daughter of Roelstra, High Prince and tyrant. And here in the environs of Castle Crag, Pol had nearly died. Did Roelstra’s malignant spirit linger here, as Rohan had vaguely sensed the other night?

  He turned his face to the sunlight, felt its warmth on his body. Neither Roelstra’s presence nor Roelstra’s example would taint Pol. Rohan would not order the invasion of Cunaxa; neither would he seize a princedom, nor play politics with a young girl whose only crime was to be born a princess. He had watched Roelstra use his daughters as bargaining points, seen Roelstra’s armies on Desert soil during a war based on flimsy pretext. He would not be the kind of High Prince Roelstra had been. If this was seen by some as weakness—he shrugged, for he cared about very few opinions in this world.

  He looked around at the rainbows on the white carpet, smudges of color against colorlessness. The oratory was finer for the sunlight, for the colors that spoke of its Sunrunner prince. But the things with which Roelstra had filled this oratory would have to be replaced.

  Rohan got to his feet, walked slowly around the perimeter of the glass cage to the table with its rich ornaments. His fingers clenched around one gold-and-amethyst goblet. An instant later a crystal pane shattered, and the priceless trinket vanished down the canyon to the dark water.

  Pol held himself with the stiffness of abused muscles and utter exhaustion. His body was reluctant to obey the order of his pride to stand straight and behave as the son of his father and mother ought. He walked into the huge banqueting hall without looking at any eyes other than those that were so like his own in a face as sternly controlled.

  Relieved murmurings chased each other through the assembly of vassals, ambassadors, and retainers. Pol was dimly aware of them, but most of his attention was focused on his father and on controlling a shameful need to be folded in strong arms. At this moment when he must conduct himself as a man, he had never felt more like a boy in need of his father’s embrace.

  Rohan descended the four steps from the high table and met Pol with a hand on his shoulder and a slight smile. The gesture and expression appeared casual, but Pol felt the long fingers tighten with fierce possessive love. Then Rohan looked over Pol’s head to the crowd. Then they both turned and faced the gathering.

  “We thank the Goddess and the good people of Castle Crag for the safety of our beloved son. With such protection, he will surely govern long and well over Princemarch.”

  A cheer went up, and Pol felt his father tense as if trying not to hug him close. He understood; they were not father and son right now but High Prince and Heir. He looked around him, surprised at the real joy and relief on most faces, intrigued by the careful smiles on others. No one here wanted his death, he was sure of it. But there were those who would not mourn too long.

  He and Maarken followed Rohan up to the dais, where Pol took the chair between his father and Pandsala. Her face was pale and expressionless; she would not look at him. Maarken sat on Rohan’s other side, as weary and aching as Pol but just as determined not to show it.

  The hall was silent. Rohan said, “Tell us what happened.”

  Pol did. They had not stopped to wash or change clothes; he wanted everyone to see their bruises and dirt. He made especially certain that all knew of Maeta’s sacrifice, and if there was a catch in his voice as he spoke, no one blamed him. When he told of the colors on the arrow that had killed her, a low rumble went through the hall. His account ended with praise for those who had helped him and Maarken to safety; he had made sure on the way back to learn their names. He paused then, ending with, “I’m grateful for your care of me today, and I’m sorry I didn’t complete the climb and failed in my—”

  They did not let him finish the sentence. “Failed?” someone cried. “We were the ones who failed you!” And above similar protests another called out, “It’s a stupid custom that nearly cost us our prince!”

  “I’m going to try again,” Pol insisted. “And next time I’ll make it to the top and earn the flight back down—and I’ll do it all on my own, too!”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it!” The large, burly form of Cladon, athri of River Ussh, stomped forth from chair to aisle. “You proved your courage and that’s what the climb is for! We’ll not risk you again, young prince!”

  “But it’s the closest I’ll ever come to flying like a dragon!” Pol was instantly aware of how childish that sounded, and felt his cheeks burn. But though laughter rippled through the hall, it was kind, understanding, even admiring. He was confused until he heard his father whisper, “Well done! You have them now, my hatchling.” And he realized that without meaning to, he had done something very clever. The highborns of Princemarch would have been duly impressed with a completed climb—but the attempt on Pol’s life had done more to increase his value in their eyes than anything else could have done. And he had sealed their commitment by vowing to do the climb again. He was theirs now, claimed by them all as their prince.

  It was an odd feeling, vaguely reminiscent for a moment of his reaction on arrival, a little like being offered up on a golden plate. But then he understood. In claiming him, they had also given themselves. His father was right. He had them. If he was theirs, they were also his.

  “We’ll discuss it some other time, Lord Cladon,” Rohan said, with a sidelong glance for Pol that combined paternal firmness and princely order. Another chuckle went through the assembly and Cladon bowed, satisfied as to Rohan’s cautionary instincts. “For the moment,” the High Prince went on, “we’re happy to have him back safe and sound.”

  “I—I have something else I’d like to say.” Pol was amazed when the sound of his voice commanded instant silence. “When we find Maeta—she told me how beautiful she thought this land. I’d like to hold her ritual here, so that a little of her will remain in Princemarch, before her ashes are returned to the Desert.”

  “Well said, your grace!” Lord Dreslav of Grand Veresch stood, his cup lifted high. “To our young prince!”

  Later, when the royal pair were alone in Pol’s chamber and they were only father and son again, Rohan clasped Pol tight to his chest. Pol clung to him, trembling with weariness. After a time he calmed down and pulled away.

  “You don’t mind, do you? About Maeta’s burning?”

  “No. It was a good thought, politically as well as personally. I know she’d like becoming part of this land you’ll rule one day. They say here that the ashes of the dead become flowers.” Rohan sat heavily in a chair and rubbed his eyes. “But I want the wind off the Long Sand for myself, Pol. Promise me that wherever I end, you’ll bring me back home.”

  “Father—you can’t die! Don’t talk that way.” He
knelt beside the chair and grasped his father’s arm.

  “I’m sorry.” Rohan smiled fleetingly. “I’m very tired, and watching you on that cliff wasn’t calculated to add years to my life.”

  “I shouldn’t have gone. Maeta would still be alive.”

  “And there would still be a Merida here to threaten you. Don’t ever second-guess life, Pol.”

  He rested his cheek on Rohan’s knee. “Mother’s not going to be happy,” he murmured.

  “Maarken will know how to explain it to her. She’ll understand.”

  “Even the way Pandsala killed the archer?”

  “Your mother . . . has done similar things. She’ll understand that, too.”

  Pol tried to imagine his mother doing what Pandsala had done—and it was only too easy to see her green eyes blazing as she called down Fire in defense of what she loved.

  “That’s why she and Lady Andrade don’t get along,” Rohan said suddenly. “Speaking of whom, she’ll have quite a bit to say about this and I don’t think Pandsala will enjoy any of it. But I doubt Andrade will even attempt to punish her. She broke the vow, but she also saved your life.”

  “Father, do you approve of what she did?”

  “The man should have been taken alive and questioned. He might have given me the excuse I needed—in front of witnesses—to invade Cunaxa and destroy the Merida once and for all.” He stared at the dark, empty windows.

  “But you’re tempted to do it just the same?” Pol ventured.

  “Without justification, I can do nothing.” He looked down at Pol. “Do you understand? Do you see that dearly as I love you, and afraid as I am for you, I can’t go against the laws I myself helped to write?”

  “Of course I understand,” Pol said, hiding astonishment that his father should be saying such things to him. “Besides, it might not’ve been the Merida behind this at all. It might be the man who claims to be Roelstra’s son.”

  “Perhaps.” Rohan rubbed his eyes. “It’ll be worse at the Rialla.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “I doubt there’ll be another attempt before then. They’d have to be more subtle. Not everyone is happy that one day you’ll rule two princedoms and probably a goodly chunk of Firon as well. I don’t mean to worry you with it, especially at your age, but you must know what we’re up against.”

  Pol said softly, “Thank you for saying ‘we.’ You never have before.”

  Rohan blinked. “Haven’t I?”

  “No. It’s always between you and Mother, or Chay, or Maarken—never me included as an active partner.”

  His father looked bemused. “It seems as if you’ve impressed me as well as everyone else today with the fact that you’re growing up. Very well. We, meaning you and I, have a great deal to talk about. But we also need to sleep until at least noon tomorrow. And that is an order that we, as the High Prince and your father, will hold you to obeying.”

  Pol made a face, then laughed. “I’m going to climb that cliff and fly down one day. I’m not the Dragon’s Son for nothing!”

  “But still a hatchling. Fly over to your bed and get some sleep.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Andry surveyed his audience, trying to banish a sudden attack of nerves. He’d used up his full quota of reassurances getting Andrade to agree to let him rather than Urival experiment with a formula from the Star Scroll. He knew it would work. He had fretted with excitement all day long at the imminent prospect of proving his theory. But all at once the idea of working an ancient sorcery unnerved him. He gulped down the peculiar lump in his throat and composed himself.

  He had chosen the little kitchen in the library wing for his demonstration. Not only was that whole section of the keep quiet and deserted at this time of night, but there was a necessary supply of running water and a hearth over which to concoct his potions. This was also the oldest part of the castle—he’d found its plan in one of the historical texts—and if Lady Merisel’s spirit lingered anywhere at Goddess Keep, it would be here.

  Urival and Morwenna were to be his subjects while Andrade observed. Hollis was with them as well, looking a little strained around the eyes as she gave him a slight smile of encouragement. She believed in his interpretation of the scroll, and thus could not be part of the experiment. Instead she would help him and provide extra witness to what happened.

  “I’ve chosen an ointment whose properties I won’t tell you about just yet, so your reactions will be spontaneous,” he began. “I’ve mixed two versions, one according to the recipe as it stands and the other following the indications of the manuscript code.”

  “I hope it’s something you can counter with medicine of our own making,” Morwenna said casually, though her suspicious gaze flickered to the pots on the table.

  “Of course.” He glanced at his great-aunt, whose face was perfectly expressionless. But her fingers beat slowly, arrhythmically, on the arm of her chair. Andry swallowed and attempted a smile. “It’s nothing serious, believe me, and nothing we can’t cure in an instant.”

  “Get on with it then,” Urival said.

  Andry directed them to chairs facing the door, backs to the hearth and the table where he would work from two small cauldrons. Hollis stood beside him, ready with clean cloths and a bucket of water. Andrade positioned her chair so she could watch everything, including Urival and Morwenna.

  “I’m going to give you several doses each. You won’t be able to see which pot I’m taking them from. They might all be the real thing, they might all be fake, or they might be any combination in any order.” When all was ready on the table before him, well out of view of the subjects, he chanced another look at Andrade. She lifted one elegant brow in silent challenge. She wanted him to fail, to be proved wrong. The implications were too dangerous. Andry knew very well it was going to work, and at this moment gave not a damn about the implications.

  “Please hold out your right hands,” he said. Taking a spoonful of thick, warm paste from one of the copper pots, he smeared a little on each upturned palm over the heel of the thumb. A few moments later Urival half-turned in his chair.

  “So? Nothing.”

  “I know. That was made strictly according to the recipe. Hollis, can you wash off their hands for me, please?”

  He dipped the spoons into both mixtures this time, placed a little of one on Urival’s hand and the other onto Morwenna’s. She tensed, expecting she knew not what—but it was Urival who gave a gasp of surprise and pain.

  “God of Storms! My hand’s on fire!” His fingers were trembling and the muscles of his hand cramped, drawing the thumb into the palm with a contortion as agonizing to see as it was obviously painful to experience.

  “Wash it off, quickly,” Andry said to Hollis. When she had done so, the muscle slowly relaxed, and some of the tension left Urival’s face.

  “I take it that was the real thing,” Andrade observed in her coldest voice. The fingers of her left hand drummed the tabletop.

  “Yes, my Lady,” Andry said. “Morwenna, please dip your hand into the water. Thank you. Any aftereffects, Urival?”

  “It aches a bit, but the pain’s gone.” He inspected his thumb, prodded the heel gently. “Leave it on longer next time. I want to see if it’ll spread to the rest of my hand.”

  Andry said nothing, feeling Andrade’s eyes on him like blue ice while he smeared the different ointments over his subjects’ thumbs. Urival cursed, sweat springing out on his forehead. The deep lines on his face drew taut with pain as his hand began to cramp around itself.

  “No—leave it on,” he gasped. “It’s spreading all through my palm—Goddess!”

  Andry winced in sympathy as his fingers knotted together, muscles contracting to draw bones out of alignment. Urival’s other hand gripped the arm of his chair forcefully enough to splinter the brittle wood. Hollis reached over to wash his hand clean, but he shook his head, teeth gritted.

  “Enough!” Andrade exclaimed as his wrist began to contort. Hollis
bathed Urival’s hand in cool water and his head fell back, his eyes closed and his face ashen. Andrade fixed Andry with a hard stare. “You proved your point.”

  “But it’s not fair to let Urival be the only one.” Morwenna turned in her chair and held out both palms. “Make one the fake and the other real. I don’t know which it is from your little pots there.”

  Andry looked to the Lady; she nodded curtly. He applied the pastes to Morwenna’s hands, and the fingers of the left began to curl up at once. Her breath hissed between her teeth. “Sweet Mother! He was right—my whole hand’s afire!”

  Andrade rose, grabbed the bucket of water, and plunged Morwenna’s hand into it. “Congratulations,” she snapped at Andry. “You were correct. Now destroy that terrible brew at once!”

  “But—”

  “Destroy it!” she thundered. “And you’re lucky I don’t order the Star Scroll burned as well! If this is the kind of knowledge it contains, then it ought to be burned!”

  “No!” Andry exclaimed, unable to help himself. Hollis put a warning hand on his arm and he subsided.

  “Hold your tongue,” Andrade told him. “And say nothing of this to anyone. Do you understand me, Andry?”

  “Yes, my Lady,” he muttered.

  When Morwenna had recovered, she and Urival left the little kitchen with Andrade. No one had said another word. Andry slumped into a chair by the glowing hearth and stared into the flames, grim silence like a too-heavy cloak on his shoulders. Hollis stood beside him, hands deep in the pockets of her trousers.

  “She’s blinded by fear,” Andry muttered. “She doesn’t understand.”

  “Perhaps you chose the wrong sort of demonstration,” Hollis suggested. “It was dramatic, I’ll grant you, but something that causes such pain wasn’t the wisest choice you could have made.”

  “What else could I do? I couldn’t very well make somebody sick and then cure it with something else from the Star Scroll, could I?” He rose and began to pace the tiled floor. “But I was right, Hollis. I was right. She just doesn’t want to admit it. Do you know what it says about dranath? That it cures the dragon sickness, what we know as the Plague. Lady Merisel wrote in the scrolls that dranath can cure the sickness, and we know that’s right because we saw it happen. If we’d known sooner, if we’d had the scrolls, then maybe my brother Jahni and my grandmother and Lady Camigwen and all the others would still be alive! And she talks of burning the Star Scroll!”