Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll

by Melanie Rawn

  It was not that Miyon and his faction wished Masul to take up residence at Castle Crag, but that they wanted to prevent Pol from ever doing so.

  “It is true that High Prince Rohan defeated Roelstra in war, and claimed all of Princemarch on his son’s behalf,” Cabar went on. “But if this man’s words are indeed true, then he is one of us. A prince.”

  “Look at him,” Miyon said. “Weigh the evidence of your own eyes against the lack of specific information about that night.”

  Rohan slanted a look at Pol from the corner of his eye. The boy sat very still, his wary, fascinated gaze on Masul. Rohan wondered what Pol was thinking. He tried to ignore the questions rampaging through his own mind—was the man really Pol’s kinsman, his uncle? Did it matter? If what they wanted was for Princemarch to continue in Roelstra’s line, then Pol would fit the requirement perfectly. But Pol ruling both Princemarch and the Desert was exactly what they did not want.

  “The coincidences are too many,” Miyon said. “I have spoken with Lady Kiele—another of Roelstra’s daughters—and she has concluded after interviewing this man that he is indeed her brother.”

  Turn Chiana loose on him, whispered Sioned’s voice in his mind. Rohan looked down at his ring, the huge topaz gleaming in the circle of emeralds like a dragon’s eye—watching, waiting. Dragons knew how to attack with exquisite cunning. Rohan was the son of one dragon, father of another.

  Clutha and Saumer were questioning Masul about his life at Dasan Manor, his training in arms, his views on everything from the silk trade to the new port a-building at the mouth of the Faolain. Masul pleaded ignorance of many princely matters, but that would flatter the others into thinking he could be influenced. The answers he did give were forthright and cleverly thought out: guileless honesty disguising deliberate cunning, and designed to present him as a worthy prince. But, more importantly, an unthreatening one.

  Rohan felt as if the ground was crumbling beneath him like sand over a sinkhole. If only the past could be conjured up to exhibit the truth as clearly as Masul’s form and features visibly exhibited a lie. . . .

  Conjuring.

  Powerful Sunrunners could glimpse bits of their personal futures. Sioned had known that Rohan waited for her from the time she was sixteen winters old. Years later she had seen and shown him herself holding an infant with Rohan’s blond hair; they had known that although she was barren, she would somehow give Rohan a son. Faradh’im could sometimes conjure up visions of the future. But could they do the same with the past?

  Andrade had been there that night. So had Pandsala. Their verbal testimony was worthless because of who they were to Rohan: his aunt, his regent. But if either or both could provide a clear vision of what had happened that night—

  Rohan got to his feet and glanced at the water clock. All conversation ceased; he drew attention away from Masul effortlessly. The young man recognized and resented it. He was supposed to be the focal point and it visibly galled him to be so easily upstaged by this slight, quiet man who was twice his age.

  “My lords, my ladies,” Rohan said, “it grows late and I’m sure we are all in need of time and privacy in which to consider this matter. There is evidence still to be presented. Lord Lyell, be so good as to hold yourself in readiness for such time as we may call upon you again.” He pretended to consult his notes. “Cousins, this afternoon we will take up matters of trade between Cunaxa, Fessenden, Isel, and Ossetia. Until then, we are adjourned. I thank the heirs and representatives present for their attendance and attention—and I trust the experience has been edifying.”

  Masul did not bow on his way out, either. He left in company with Miyon, Cabar, and Velden, with Lyell, forgotten, trailing along behind them. Chadric took a few steps toward Rohan as if he wanted to say something, but then seemed to think better of it and helped his father leave the tent. Soon Rohan was alone with Pol, who was staring into the empty air. To give the boy time to marshal his thoughts and questions, Rohan made a slow circuit of the tent, halting before the water clock. He ran one finger over the carved dragon, watching water drip inexorably through the ruby.

  “Father?”

  “Yes, Pol.”

  “Why aren’t you going to let them discuss the evidence this afternoon?”

  “Think about whose trade we’ll be reviewing.”

  There was a short pause. “Miyon’s, so he has to come and pay attention and you can keep an eye on him. But the others haven’t really declared for either side, have they?”

  “No. And by listening to how they conduct themselves with Miyon over trade, I may get an idea of where they might jump on this other matter.”

  “Oh!” Another moment, and Pol said excitedly, “And if he’s nasty over his wools and metals, they might get irritated and lean toward us!”

  “Maybe.” Rohan turned and asked, “How do you read all this?”

  “Miyon looks pretty easy to twitch,” Pol said shrewdly. “I think he thinks he’s very clever. But he’s also stubborn and proud.”

  “A dangerous mixture. Why should I—what did you call it? Twitch him?”

  “To get Chale and Pimantal and Saumer mad at him.”

  “And would it be wise of me to do it openly?” Rohan shook his head. “Roelstra did that, you know. He created dissension deliberately, so he could solve problems he himself made by exercising his power to get what he wanted to begin with. That’s not how I work, Pol. If Miyon antagonizes them on his own, fine. I must be more subtle, and let him know what real cleverness is.” He smiled. “He’s eager to try his strength against me, and my army along his border this spring and summer hasn’t made him love me.”

  “But what about Kiele? She’s the one who made all this possible for Masul.”

  “An interesting woman,” he admitted. “Presumably, she didn’t balk at murdering a Sunrunner. By the way, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Masul had done that himself. He seems to have all the right killing instincts. Look at how well he played off Pandsala.” Rohan sighed deeply. “Pol, there’s a vast difference between wanting power and wanting what power can accomplish. Faradh’im inherit power and are trained in its uses. But sometimes a prince or athri comes along who doesn’t understand it at all. He wants the fact of it, but cares nothing for its substance. Roelstra was like that. He enjoyed power for its own sake. Am I making any sense?”

  “I think I understand,” the boy said slowly. “He opposed you because you had power and Mother. It wasn’t that he wanted to do the same kinds of things you did with your power. He just couldn’t stand that you had it.” Pol hesitated, then said, “From what I’ve heard today, Princess Ianthe was like that, too, wasn’t she?”

  Rohan kept his expression calm. “Yes. She was like that, too.” He stretched and said, “Come on, we should get something to eat. I have a long afternoon ahead of me. I assume you’ll return to the paddocks to exercise Chay’s horse?”

  “How did you know that’s where I was?”

  Rohan was glad of the chance to laugh. “Your mother—or was it Tobin?—made sure you were washed and combed before you got here, and you even cleaned your boots. But you forgot to remove that hoof-pick from your back pocket.”

  Pol made a face. “It was Aunt Tobin. I thought you were going to say something magic, like Mother usually does when she figures out what I don’t want her to know.”

  “Start practicing the art of observation. It can be very useful—and not just when you want to astonish your son.”

  Another father and son spoke alone together in another tent, but this time it was the son who astonished the father.

  “Why didn’t you come to me with this earlier?” Ostvel demanded of Riyan. “Has Clutha kept you under lock and key?”

  “Just about,” the young man replied. “I’m sorry, Father, but this is the first chance I’ve had to get away. I’m only here now because Sioned made a direct request to Clutha this morning. Halian demands my constant attendance, for all that I’m supposed to be Clutha’s squir
e.”

  “Couldn’t you have—”

  “No,” Riyan stated flatly. “I couldn’t disobey Halian or do anything out of the ordinary. And I didn’t dare tell anyone but Lady Andrade what I saw. If Kiele and this Masul murdered Kleve—”

  “They’d have no qualms about doing the same to you.” Ostvel surprised his only offspring by pulling him into a rough embrace. “Forgive me for snapping at you. You did the right thing.” He released his son and sank into a chair. “So we have proof of a sort.”

  “Of a very poor sort. Kleve never actually told me his suspicions. And I never got close enough to the house to see who was in it besides Kiele. I didn’t see Masul. I didn’t see him kill a Sunrunner.” His hands clenched, his rings bright arcs between whitened knuckles. “Father, for all I know Halian is in league with Kiele, and has been keeping me away from you on purpose. I don’t trust anybody and that scares me.” He paused, shaking his head. “The most we can do is tell Rohan and Sioned. Maybe they’ll be able to confront Kiele with it and frighten her off somehow.”

  “It would only put you in danger by letting her know that you saw something you shouldn’t have. I can’t risk you, Riyan. I won’t risk you.” Looking directly into his son’s eyes, he said, “You’re all I have left of your mother.”

  Rarely had he heard Ostvel even mention the woman Riyan barely remembered. He swallowed the ache in his throat. Standing beside his father’s chair, he studied the worried face, the cloud-gray eyes. “What do you think Mother would have done?”

  Ostvel shrugged, uncomfortable with the emotion. “If you knew how many times I’ve asked myself that over the years since she died. . . . She probably would have said exactly what you have.” He shifted position and went on, “We—Maarken and I—took Pol over to the Fair again for a little while today, and only had to keep our ears open to hear all the latest rumors. Masul is, he isn’t, he couldn’t be, he ought to be, how long will Rohan let him live. . . .” Ostvel slammed his fist on the arm of the chair.

  “It seems to me that the length of Masul’s life depends entirely on Masul himself,” Riyan murmured.

  “Try convincing others of that. They don’t know our High Prince the way you and I do. He’d cut off his own arm before he’d make a surreptitious or dishonorable move against this pretender.”

  “And tell us it’s practicality that stays his hand, not any particular nobility on his part.”

  “Accuse him of being noble and he’ll laugh in your face. It has to do with freedom.”

  “Whose?” the young man asked, bewildered.

  “His. Don’t worry,” he added in sympathy. “I don’t completely understand it either. What he says is that when you take action, you trap yourself into that action. But by waiting and seeing how things develop, you keep your options open. You’re free to choose what to do—or what not to do.”

  “You’re right. I don’t understand at all.”

  “I think it goes back to his first Rialla,” Ostvel mused. “He did certain things that trapped people into doing certain other things. But he got trapped, as well—and he didn’t much like it, I can tell you. What you have to understand about him is that he’ll never use us. He knows exactly what we’re made of, our strengths and weaknesses, and makes his own plans accordingly. But he’ll never trap us into doing things. It was done to him and he hated it. With Rohan, you’ll never do anything for him that you wouldn’t have done of your own will. He won’t twist you all awry getting you to do what he wants. But because he knows who and what you are, you’ll do it anyway.”

  “He really is the azhrei,” Riyan said, half in wonder. “A dragon waits to see which way the herd will run before he begins his hunt.”

  “I suggest you do the same,” his father warned. “You’ve not been away so long that I can’t still tell what you’re thinking. You’ve your mother’s eyes, you know. She never could hide much from me. Don’t even consider it, Riyan. Rohan and Pol must meet this man in public and discredit him in public, or Pol’s claim will never be secure.”

  “Pity,” Riyan said briefly.

  “Whatever you’re thinking, I forbid it,” Ostvel warned.

  “I wasn’t thinking anything, Father.”

  “Good. See that you continue not thinking it.” The storm clouds in his eyes cleared a little. “Sit down and talk to me of other things. I’m sick of plots and politics. How did you like returning to Clutha’s service? Has he treated you well?”

  Riyan answered with stories of his time at Swalekeep, finding relief equal to his father’s in discussion of matters no more weighty than the best method of saddle breaking a horse or the antics of Halian’s illegitimate daughters. But though much of him relaxed into easy conversation, a deeper part of his mind was working out ways he could continue to observe Kiele—as his fostering prince had, after all, commanded.

  He found his opportunity later that day. Lady Chiana required certain things at the residence in Waes, and had enlisted Prince Halian as escort on the ride. This was a piece of rather transparent guile on her part, for if Halian was with her, he could not be elsewhere listening to persons who doubted her royal birth. Riyan, whom Halian had once again appropriated from Clutha, went along with them and listened stolidly to their flirtation. All the arch comments and teasing laughter Chiana lavished on Halian were things long since directed unsuccessfully at Riyan; he was privately amazed that she varied her technique not at all from man to man. But Halian swallowed all of it as if he was the very first ever to rise to her bait. Riyan felt rather sorry for him, but he was contemptuous too. The prince was welcome to her, and much joy might she bring him if he was fool enough to make her his wife.

  On arrival at the residence, she tossed her reins to Riyan as if he were nothing more than a groom and gave him casual permission to attend to his own pursuits. Halian waved him away, intent on Chiana.

  Riyan watched the pair mount the steps to the main doors, thinking sardonically of Kiele’s probable reaction to having her home used as a whorehouse. Chiana was no idiot, he’d give her that; there were servants aplenty inside to witness the amount of time she and Halian would spend alone, probably locked away in an upper chamber with access to a bed. If Halian thought he’d be getting Chiana for free, he was in for a shock. Riyan shrugged and helped stable the horses, exchanging idle chat with a friendly groom who knew him from his stay here.

  After a brief debate with himself, he rode to the manor house outside town where Kleve had been killed. He reined in before it, lips pursed and brow furrowed. Sunlight poured down the roof like a glaze of warm honey, wildflowers sprang up from the surrounding grasses; it did not look like a place of death. Tethering his horse he opened the door cautiously and went inside.

  The rooms were as empty as when he’d inspected them the night of Kleve’s death. Nothing had been touched—the bedclothes were still tumbled and the used crockery stank of rotted food. Riyan shook his head over the fool’s errand he was engaged in. If no one had returned to tidy the evidence, chances were there was no evidence to be found. But he had to try.

  The afternoon yielded faint dark stains on the floor that might have been blood, and other signs of hasty abandonment he’d missed last time—a shirt kicked under the bed and forgotten, a woman’s earring under the table where candlelight hadn’t caught it but sunlight did. It had to be Kiele’s. But short of ransacking her jewel coffers for the other one, there was no way to prove it. Besides, she would have disposed of the matching earring the instant she’d discovered she’d lost this one. But evidence was here, all right—which made him revise his original interpretation of the disorder. No one had returned because no one dared. Perhaps he’d disturbed something in his search that night, warning the occupant to flee at once. Perhaps he had even been seen entering or leaving the house—and if that was true, he marveled that he was still alive. Riyan pocketed the earring and continued the hunt.

  Toward dusk he found usable evidence stuffed into a closet at the back of the house. Riy
an’s active imagination prompted speculation that a piece of clothing or some other article belonging to Kleve had, like the shirt and earring, been forgotten in a panicky departure.

  But he was not prepared for the bundle of heavy wool in the closet, stiff with dried blood, wrapped around a towel that contained three severed fingers.

  Riyan dropped the grisly bundle, backing away in horror. A cry clotted in his throat. Stumbling, half-blind, he ran for the sink and vomited up everything in his stomach. When he was empty and exhausted by the violence of his reaction, he pumped water to wash his face. Sight of his own water-polished rings made him gag again.

  It seemed forever before he could make himself go back. The blanket lay where he had flung it, the pattern of red and yellow crusted over with dried blood. As for the towel—Riyan knelt, trembling, and forced himself to touch a finger, to begin removing its ring. Andrade would want them, he told himself over and over. Andrade would want them as proof.

  But then he stopped, staring at the plain circles around the severed fingers.

  Kleve had worn six rings, marking him as adept at using both sun and moons. But on the bloodied towel before him were three fingers wearing only two silver rings.

  He sucked in a great lungful of air, steadying himself. His father had told him that Sioned had somehow recovered one of the gold rings; it was how they learned of Kleve’s death. It must have been from the left first finger—missing from this grim collection. The other gold was gone from the right thumb. It was the proudest ring of all, the fifth that signified full Sunrunner status. He could see the white circle on dead skin where the ring had been worn for most of Kleve’s life.

  Where was that fifth ring?

  Riyan pushed himself to his feet and went to the window, flinging it wide to let clean air in. Then he got a fresh sheet from the stack in the linen cupboard and used it to wrap the evidence. He took another sheet and folded the blanket in it—thick red-and-yellow wool, Cunaxan weave, that had undoubtedly shrouded Kleve’s corpse while it was carried away. Masul was said to be tall and strong, with broad shoulders and muscles enough to make the burden a relatively light one. And Riyan felt sick again at realizing that while he himself had been poking around the manor house, Masul had been depositing Kleve’s body somewhere for the scavengers to find. Why couldn’t Masul have returned while Riyan was still there? He bitterly cursed the missed chance—then gulped and acknowledged that the Goddess had been watching over him that night.