by Melanie Rawn
“Only a little. A pinch in a glass of wine, less as the days wore on. Roelstra gave me quite a bit that night. The same happened after the dose that cured the Plague.” Her shoulders shifted to shrug off the memory. “Be careful with it.”
“She will be,” Urival stated, his face grim.
“Do you think Roelstra knew about the old sorceries?” Rohan asked.
“If he had, he would have used them—not just the dranath to addict poor Crigo.” Urival shook his head. “I’ve talked myself hoarse with warnings that no one listens to.”
“Would you rather see Andry at his little demonstrations again?” Andrade snapped. “What frightens me about him is that he’s not as frightened of the Star Scroll as he ought to be.” Andrade eyed the royal couple. “I hope you’ve instilled a little respect in that hatchling of yours. Andry has been a handful, but Pol’s stubbornness might be the death of me.”
Sioned hesitated, then said, “Andrade—I don’t want Pol coddled or given special treatment, but promise me you won’t bully him too much. He’s not like any of the others, not even Maarken or Riyan. Who he is, what he’ll become one day—promise me you’ll keep those things in mind.”
“We can hardly escape them,” she responded in dry tones. “Leave me now. I won’t be drugging myself tonight, so stop scowling. All I want is some sleep.”
Rohan and Sioned were silent as they returned to their pavilion. He sank wearily into the chair at his desk.
“So that’s why Meath was attacked on his way to Goddess Keep. Today has been hellish all the way around. And the way she talked about Andry—”
“He’s not a little boy anymore.”
“No. But I can’t share her apprehensions about someone I used to play at dragons with. What an interesting family we have,” he added wryly.
Sioned began taking off her clothes, pausing only to throw a bedrobe at him. “Here. If you’re going to be up half the night, at least be comfortable.”
“What do you think about the Star Scroll?” he asked as he shrugged out of tunic and shirt before wrapping himself in the blue silk.
“I think the potentials for danger and knowledge are just about equal,” she mused. “The old sorcerers are still around. What happened tonight—” She shivered. “Tradition generally confirms Sunrunners on the continent for at least three hundred years. That’s a long time to be in hiding.”
“But where? Why? What are they waiting for?” When she only shrugged, he said, “You’re awfully calm about this. Is it because you, too, know how to use the stars?”
She would not look at him, only stood smoothing the folds of her bedgown with fingers that trembled a little. “I’m scared to death,” she whispered. “What I did was instinctive. There was no other light to use. I had to know where you were. . . .” At last she met his gaze. “Rohan, what if I’m—”
“One of them?” He shook his head. “Don’t you remember what we were saying about power? It’s not power of itself that’s good or evil, Sioned. It’s the person wielding it. You’re wise enough to know that.”
“If you say so.” She shrugged again, and in a steadier tone went on, “To the Sunrunners, these people are a threat. To the other princes? I don’t know. But Pol is both Sunrunner and prince. That makes him dangerous to them in new ways, it seems. They went to a lot of trouble to kill the only witness who could challenge this Masul’s claim and make it seem as if Merida were responsible. So they’re still hiding.” She sighed and extinguished the bedside candle. “Make sure your feet are warm before you come to bed.”
“Prosaic advice. Are you so certain I’ll be awake that late into the night?”
She stretched out and drew the blanket over her shoulders, replying unanswerably, “I know you, my lord azhrei.”
Chapter Eighteen
Everyone knew that no serious business would be transacted by the princes in the time before Lyell of Waes addressed them that morning. Rohan spent half the night wondering how he might save himself the embarrassment of trying to conduct what were bound to be fruitless discussions. He resigned himself to a morning that would reflect badly on his leadership through no fault of his own—while cursing Kiele’s cunning that had deliberately arranged the time at which her husband was scheduled to speak.
But Prince Lleyn spared him any awkwardness. The old man insisted on making an uncharacteristically garrulous report on the current state of shipping throughout the princedoms. Everyone used Lleyn’s merchant fleet, so everyone was compelled to pay attention. Rohan blessed him and kept an eye on the water clock.
It was a new device, more reliable than the old sandglasses. Sand eroded crystal as it passed through, shortening the days. Time in the form of water dripped from a sphere through a hole cut into a flawless ruby, down to another sphere marked off in regular increments. The hinged, airtight lid of the upper crystal was a golden dragon with emeralds for eyes. Rohan had ordered it made for him two years ago after a Fironese crafter had written to him about its principles, and one of his goals was to establish the manufacture and trade of such clocks. But as Lleyn droned on, and there was no discernible difference in the level of water in either sphere, Rohan began to doubt that accurate measurement of time was such a good idea after all. Waiting was waiting, no matter how one counted off the time.
At a little past the fifth level of the clock a guard in Desert blue slid into the tent and around to Rohan’s chair. Lleyn immediately gave over the meeting without a single indication that he had rambled on at great length to very definite purpose. Rohan thanked his grace of Dorval for his valuable information, then addressed the other princes.
“Cousins, yesterday Lyell of Waes requested a few moments of our time. As all of us know, it’s not unusual for an athri to have something to say.” He smiled slightly to imply that Lyell’s words had about as much importance as the customary whining of a dissatisfied vassal. “Shall we hear him out?”
“If it doesn’t take too long, then why not, my lords?” Cabar drawled, and won a few half-hidden grins of anticipation from around the table.
Davvi said pleasantly, “Perhaps we might admit our heirs to observe. Our sons are trained at home and they’re well-schooled by their fostering lords, but there’s no substitute for observation of ruling princes at work.”
“Excellent notion,” Clutha said. “It’ll give my boy a chance to see how princes conduct themselves. A lesson he needs,” he finished grumpily.
There were no objections, although there were only four heirs present at the Rialla this year. Volog and Pimantal visibly regretted not having brought their eldest sons; Velden’s and Cabar’s were still little boys. Miyon was not married, but it was rumored that several children could claim him as father.
Rohan met Davvi’s gaze, seeing a familiar look of innocent cunning in green eyes very like Sioned’s, and silently conveyed his approval of the ploy. Pol was the heir who needed to be where all could see and compare him to the man Lyell would undoubtedly produce at the climax of his speech. There was a brief interlude while squires were sent to collect Chadric, Kostas, Halian, and Pol. Rohan used the time to give a casual explanation of the water clock with an eye to creating a demand for them when Firon became his. Saumer of Isel made the wry observation that although the device could not be much use in the Desert, where the sun shone constantly and sundials were common, he could certainly use one at his own rainy castle.
Prince Chadric arrived, bowed to all, and took the seat placed for him behind his father’s chair. Lleyn murmured something to him and Chadric’s lips quirked with amusement. Soon Kostas, Halian, and Pol were present, the latter with his cheeks still pink from a hasty scrub and his hair slicked back by a damp comb. He gave them all a sunny smile, obviously excited to be included, and from around the table kind nods were given—some reluctantly, to be sure. But Pol was hard to resist.
Rohan was about to order that Lyell be admitted when the tent flaps parted to admit an unexpected quartet. Three were princesses; one was
the acting representative of her princedom. Sioned and Pandsala flanked young Gemma and Lady Eneida of Firon, and the men frankly stared. With all her outrageous assumption of co-sovereignty with the High Prince, Sioned had never sat in on any Rialla meetings before. Women were simply not allowed in formal conclaves, and not even she had dared flout tradition. But Davvi’s suggestion that heirs be included made this an informal meeting. Rohan knew he should have expected his wife to take advantage of it.
“My lords, good morning. I was with my son when your summons came, and took it upon myself to bring the Princess Gemma from her tent. Along the way I encountered Lady Eneida of Firon with the Princess-Regent.” She smiled as if this happy coincidence had indeed been a coincidence. Her eyes didn’t bother challenging them to object; they wouldn’t, couldn’t, and she knew it. “Cousin,” she gently prompted Chale, “your heir needs a place to sit down.”
Four drops of water fell from the clock’s upper crystal to the lower one while the old man looked torn between indignation that women had invaded this princely gathering and smug approval of Sioned’s coup. Tradition lost—as usual around Sioned. He waved Gemma to him and placed her chair himself.
Sioned continued, “I regret I cannot stay. Your ladies are joining me in only a little while, and there is much to be done.” She gave them all another sweet smile and, after bowing to her husband, withdrew.
A lifetime of discipline kept Rohan’s face straight. Sioned had instituted her luncheons three Riall’im ago, and princes grew nervous when they considered what their wives, sisters, and daughters said during private chats with the High Princess. Women said to other women what men often scorned to hear; Rohan usually got a clearer idea of what was going on from Sioned’s reports of what the ladies had said than he got from the princes themselves.
Lady Eneida, thin and straight as a sword, stood beside the chair placed for her. “My lords, though Firon is without a prince, her grace asked me to join you as my land’s representative.” With that she sat down, the action fairly trumpeting her right to be there.
Pandsala had already taken her seat behind Pol, who sat directly at Rohan’s side and not behind him. This, too, startled the other princes slightly, but he had been acknowledged by them all shortly after his birth as possessing Princemarch in his own right. Legally, he could have sat in on their formal talks as well. As his regent, Pandsala technically had no right to be present, but no one had the courage or the bad manners to protest. Besides, many were eager to see her face when confronted with the man who could be her brother.
Rohan gestured to Tallain and leaned back casually in his chair. It was a deliberate pose expected of him under the circumstances; he did it anyway. A glance at his son’s profile polished his wits to a sharp gleam. Pol would not lose Princemarch before he ever had the chance to rule it.
Lyell came in, and not alone. A tall, bearded young man was with him. His dark hair had a faintly reddish tint that was stronger in his neat beard, and it was trimmed to frame very green eyes. He wore a plain tunic of finest blue silk so dark as to be nearly violet. Tan leather trousers clung to muscular legs above soft boots dyed to match the tunic. A heavy silver ring was on one finger, a thin gold circle on another, and an amethyst earring swung close to his cheek. His gaze moved slowly from face to face in the stunned silence, lingering a moment on Pol before he stared straight at Rohan. He did not bow.
No one breathed for several seconds. Then Pandsala surged up from her chair, white to the lips and trembling with fury. “Bend your head and your knees to your betters, peasant!” she spat.
“And greetings to you, dearest sister,” Masul replied, smiling.
“That relationship has yet to be proved,” said Prince Lleyn in mild tones, a calm reminder that broke the tension holding everyone in thrall. Rohan blessed the old man again and touched Pandsala’s arm. She sank back into her seat, glaring.
“Lord Lyell, I assume you have an explanation,” Rohan said quietly.
“I do, your grace.” Lyell bowed, as Masul still had not. “Of all the things I might have said, none would impress your graces so much as the simple sight of this man. My wife, Lady Kiele, has questioned him at great length, and she is satisfied that he is indeed her brother, born of the late High Prince Roelstra and his mistress, Lady Palila. I have spoken with Lord Masul as well, and I, too, am convinced.”
Pandsala’s breath hissed as Lyell gave Masul the title, but she neither spoke nor moved. Rohan hoped she would continue to hold her tongue, and regarded Lyell with one brow slightly arched.
“I ask your pardon for my boldness,” the Lord of Waes went on, “but—”
“But you required our complete attention,” Rohan said dryly. “Proceed.”
Lyell’s pale cheekbones acquired a ruddy stain and he licked his lips nervously. But no one was looking at him. He faded next to Masul’s vivid presence.
The pretender stepped forward. Cabar and Velden moved their chairs apart so he could stand at the table between them. “I can tell my own tale, my lords,” he said.
“Your own lies,” whispered Pandsala, but only Rohan and Pol heard her.
“I was born here at Waes twenty-one years ago on the sail barge belonging to High Prince Roelstra—a fact I have known all my life, verifiable in city birth records which will be presented for your inspection. On that same night other children were born in the same place, and their names also are listed.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt; Roelstra’s gesture. Kiele had taught him well, Rohan thought.
“The Princess-Regent can testify to the confusion of that night, brought about by her own efforts and those of her sister, Princess Ianthe.” He smiled mockingly in Pandsala’s direction. “Should Lady Palila produce a male child, the boy would take precedence over them—a thing most undesirable in their eyes. So they brought along other pregnant women, induced labor in them when Palila began her own, and hoped that at least one of the women would bear a girl who could be substituted for the male heir if such was born. This was the plan outlined by Princess Ianthe to her sister. But Princess Pandsala then went to Lady Palila, told her of the plot, and promised that if a girl was born to her that Pandsala would exchange this eighteenth worthless daughter for a boy-child who—they hoped—would be born to one of the other women.
“A risky plan, you will agree. There was chaos that night—babies being born, people milling about, the two princesses running back and forth from Pallia’s suite to the lower hold. Yet some things were seen and heard by all.
“First, Lady Palila was heard to shout in triumph that she had borne a son to Roelstra. Second, when the happy father arrived, there were two children present. One was Chiana. The other—” Masul again fixed his jeering gaze on Pandsala. “The other was a boy. Roelstra’s true son. Me.”
“Liar!” Pandsala snapped. “Both children were girls! The infant boy hadn’t been born yet!”
Rohan stifled a sigh. It would have been better for Pandsala never to have admitted that she had seen a male child at all. But he supposed she was past her limits now. He couldn’t much blame her.
“Look at me, sister! Haven’t I our father’s eyes, his height, his bearing? Doesn’t the color of my beard suggest the color of Palila’s hair?” He addressed the others once more. “The woman who called herself my mother was blonde and dark-eyed. Her husband was of the same coloring. Both of them were of less than medium stature. How could two small, fair, dark-eyed people produce a tall, dark, green-eyed son?”
It was Davvi—loyal, earnest, one of the architects of Rohan’s power and Pol’s inheritance—who rose in their defense.
“I have two sons taller than I, and my late wife was small enough to fit beneath my chin. Posture and gestures may be learned. As for green eyes—many people have them. Prince Pol’s eyes are quite green in certain lights. Does this mean that he, too, may be Roelstra’s son?”
Davvi, who believed the lie Sioned had started and Rohan had let stand because every good barbarian prince desired a son t
o rule after him. Rohan sat with an impassive face, dying a little inside.
“I respectfully ask our cousin of Syr what evidence there is to the contrary?” Velden of Grib got to his feel beside Masul, hands planted aggressively on the table before him. “Can the Princess-Regent say for certain which child was which? Who else was there that night to witness the birth of Palila’s child?”
Pandsala spoke in a voice that would have iced the Long Sand in midsummer. “My sister Ianthe was the only attendant at the birth. And she is dead.”
Velden spread his hands, dark eyes wide with pretended bewilderment. “I ask you, my lords. Is it possible that this man is Roelstra’s son? There are no living witnesses to the contrary. But there is the evidence of our own eyes.”
Miyon rose to his feet on the opposite side of the table. “Look at him, cousins,” he said in silken tones. “Some of you knew the late High Prince very well. Is there a resemblance?”
The older princes stayed silent. Pandsala did not.
“I am Roelstra’s unchallenged daughter, and I say this man lies!”
“But does he look like Roelstra?” Miyon pressed. “Enough like to be his son?”
“Tall, dark-haired, green-eyed—I could find a hundred fitting the description! It proves nothing!”
“But this man’s birth is recorded in the registers of Waes for that particular night.”
“Are you telling me I would not know my own flesh and blood?” Pandsala exclaimed, rising half out of her chair. “Are you daring to call me a liar?”
“Never, my lady!” he protested, eyes wide. “But . . . perhaps your position does not encourage you to look on what may be the truth with clear eyes.”
Madness, Rohan told himself. None of this had anything to do with Masul’s claim, but with Pol’s.
Cabar of Gilad took up Masul’s cause. “My lords, consider. If this man is indeed Roelstra’s son, then we must think very carefully whether or not we shall deprive him of his birthright as a prince. As one of us.”
