Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll

by Melanie Rawn

  They selected various snacks and ate as they walked up the hill to the wood. Pol wanted to explore—out from under the stern eyes of Maarken and Ostvel—and so before turning for the caged and hooded birds, the pair slid through the trees and underbrush. Tilal made a game of it, teaching Pol some of the tricks necessary for hunting in a forest, which this son of the open Desert had yet to learn.

  “You’ll have to come to River Run some autumn and I’ll show you what real hunting is,” Tilal chuckled after Pol had stepped on yet another twig, its loud crack startling him.

  “My lord Chadric lets us come with him sometimes, but it’s always on horseback, hunting deer. Show me again how to walk without any noise.”

  Tilal obliged, and Pol imitated him with growing skill. Each foot was placed softly, carefully; every muscle in the body controlled; all senses aware of scents and textures and breezes and sounds—

  “Come any closer and I’ll scream,” a woman said quietly.

  Tilal grabbed Pol’s elbow and they both froze. The voice had come from beyond a stand of berry brambles, its owner invisible and unknown to Pol—but the tense anger on Tilal’s face revealed that he knew the woman’s identity.

  “I mean it, Kostas! I’ll scream and bring everyone running to witness this shameful—”

  “No, Gemma. You won’t scream. Above the noise of the hawks and the noise of the Fair, who would hear you? Besides, I mean you no harm, my lady. Only come to me, be with me—”

  “No!”

  Tilal’s fingers put bruises onto Pol’s arm to stop the boy’s intended rush into the woods. “No,” he breathed. “Wait.”

  “But he’s going to—”

  “Not even Kostas would do that.”

  Pol considered. Rape was a heinous crime. If found guilty, the accused man was deprived of the physical equipment that would enable him to repeat the offense. If the woman made a false accusation, however, her dowry was forfeit to the man and her overlord had to pay a hefty fine for her lies. Kostas and Gemma both knew the law; neither would be so foolish as to risk rape or an accusation of it.

  Gemma was stating this very fact to Kostas as Pol and Tilal listened. “I’m sure you eventually want children! But be assured, my lord, that they will not come from me!”

  “If you accuse me I can prove my innocence—and then you would lose Ossetia, for that’s your dowry. I would be Prince of Ossetia with or without you, my lady. I would much rather it be with you at my side, in honor.”

  “Honor!” she spat. “And how would you prove your innocence? What makes you think my uncle Prince Chale would even let it come to trial? I have only to accuse you, and he’ll kill you!”

  “With my uncle High Prince Rohan standing by? I think not, my lady. There are four witnesses of impeccable repute ready to swear I was with them all day. Come, Gemma,” he said, his voice softening. “Stop this nonsense. We have always been intended for each other, even before you became Chale’s heir. Accept me, and I’ll make you happy, I swear it, and be a good and wise prince for both our lands—”

  By now Tilal’s hand was white around the wrapped sword. He had heard enough. He let go of Pol and slipped through an opening in the bushes. Pol followed, trembling with fury, and stood watching as the brothers confronted each other in the little glade.

  “Four witnesses more impeccable than your own brother and the High Prince’s son?” His voice was a swordthrust into Kostas’ spine; the elder brother whirled, rage blazing in his eyes. “How dare you?” Tilal hissed. “Damn you, Kostas, leave her alone and before I forget you’re my brother!”

  Kostas’ answer was to unsheathe his sword. Tilal tore at the wrappings of the weapon he’d bought for his father. Gemma had the good sense not to scream; instead she flung herself between the pair, a courageous move that nonetheless irritated Pol. He went forward, grasped her arm, and hauled her out of the way.

  “They won’t fight, my lady,” he told her in a clear voice meant not so much for her as for his cousins. “If they do, everyone in all the princedoms will hear about this from me. Put up your weapon, Kostas. Now. Tilal, if you untie one more of those knots—”

  Enraged, the brothers turned on him with snarls. Pol found that his shaking had retreated deep within his body. His hands and voice were steady, his knees secure. He felt at once powerful and vulnerable: his will and personality battered strongly at their anger, but he was vulnerable to his own strange inner trembling, a warning he could not understand. Did his father ever feel this way? Was this what it was to experience the power of being High Prince?

  Power he had, and it was exhilarating as well as frightening. Kostas slammed his sword back into its sheath. Tilal’s fighting stance relaxed a fraction. Gemma was the one trembling now, her breath coming in little gasps.

  “Do you wish to charge this man with rape, my lady?” Pol asked coldly.

  She shook her head, bright auburn hair straggling down her neck and cheeks. “No, your grace. I do not.”

  “A wise decision, my lady.” He eased his grip on her and looked at the brothers. There was nothing more pathetic than two otherwise rational men fighting over the same woman. “You both want her.”

  Tilal glared at him, then turned away. Kostas looked as if he would draw his sword again and use it on Pol. The heady feeling of pitting his will against theirs grew—along with an equivalent fear of what might happen if he failed to dominate them.

  “Did either of you ask Gemma what she wants? Gentle Goddess, what a pair!” Pol snorted. “My lady, do you want either of these fools?”

  She freed her hand from his and pushed the hair from her face, pulling herself straight and proud. “The truth, your grace? Yes. And it is not Kostas I want for my husband.”

  “And Prince of Ossetia,” Pol reminded her. “Tilal, are you listening? Face me. Ask her.”

  “No!” Kostas shouted. “I won’t allow it!”

  Pol sighed. “Tilal, I’m waiting.”

  The young Lord of River Run swung around, still furious. “I hope you’re enjoying this, your grace!” he said viciously. “Yes, I want her! I’ve always loved her—but I wouldn’t marry her now if—”

  Why were supposedly grown men so colossally stupid? “You’re about to lose your chance, Tilal. Ask her now or not at all.”

  Kostas gave an inarticulate bellow and lunged for his brother. The pair rolled on the ground, not even remembering swords and knives, intent on the more direct satisfaction of pummeling fists, broken bones, and smashed jaws.

  Pol watched for a moment, thoroughly disgusted. They probably would not do each other any serious damage, being evenly matched physically and too furious to be really effective in their battle. But as Kostas got in a decent kick, Gemma cried out Tilal’s name, clinging to Pol’s shoulder.

  He shook her off and concentrated, calling Fire. Not much—just enough to get their attention. A respectable gout of red-gold flames rose from a stone to the height of the nearest bush. Gemma gave a little choked scream. Tilal and Kostas reacted more violently, breaking apart from each other and scrambling to their feet. The tense knot of power inside Pol uncurled, sending tendrils of excitement through him—still countered by the apprehension. He was beginning to cherish that chill little warning, and to understand it as an essential part of wielding power.

  “Now,” he said softly, in the way he thought his father would, “shall we behave like civilized people? Good. Tilal, the princess and I are still waiting.”

  After Tobin’s breakfast party—which had left Sioned satisfied with Chiana’s progress in claiming Miyon’s attention, if not with her son’s little performance—she returned to her pavilion intending to spend a few quiet moments alone in her private quarters. But Andrade and Pandsala had arrived before her.

  “Please don’t start,” Sioned warned as she sank into a deep chair. “Rohan didn’t sleep very well last night, which means I didn’t either. And I’m trying to think up a really good excuse to avoid blistering Pol’s behind for him.”
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  “Oh, that.” Andrade waved away the boy’s lapse with one hand. “I was impressed by his control, actually. Sioned, we have things to discuss that can’t wait.”

  “I’m sorry, your grace,” Pandsala put in quietly.

  “Apologize some other time,” Andrade interrupted. “Sioned, over the years you’ve reasoned out most of my plans. But now the time is perfect for the culmination of everything I’ve worked for—and everything you and Rohan have wanted as well.”

  Sioned felt herself go rigid with suspicion, and tried to relax. “The two are not necessarily the same,” she commented warily.

  “Nonsense. We all want the same thing in the end. And there’ll never be a better chance for it. You can’t consolidate everything under your own banner this year, of course, but the makings of it are right under your nose. Rohan started it himself when he encouraged Kierst and Isel to join in marriage. When Volog and Saumer are dead, that boy—what’s his name? Arlis—he’ll inherit both princedoms. And he’s Pol’s kinsman, which makes it perfect. Pol might just as well be ruling Kierst-Isel himself.”

  Sioned murmured, “Go on.”

  “As for Ossetia—if we marry off Gemma to Kostas, then Ossetia and Syr are united as well under Pol’s kinsman. What could be better?”

  “Is there more?” she asked softly.

  “Yes, your grace,” Pandsala replied. “There is Firon. If it becomes part of Princemarch, then the crystal trade will be yours, as well as another princedom. And there is Port Adni. Lord Narat has no heir. His holding will revert to Volog on his death, and become part of Arlis’ wealth. And there is Waes, as well. Once this pretender is exposed as a fraud, Kiele and Lyell can be dealt with, and Waes will become Clutha’s.” She hesitated an instant, then went on determinedly. “I suggest the same for all the others who support Masul. If they are allowed to retain their princedoms after opposing Pol’s claim, they will always be enemies and not to be trusted. There are enough loyal young men within your own family and those of your allies to provide princes for Cunaxa, Gilad, Grib, and Fessenden, which look to be the main sources of opposition.”

  “Do you agree with this?” Sioned met Andrade’s cool blue eyes.

  “I do,” she answered, nodding.

  “So,” she said. “If I understand you correctly, our goals should be as follows. First, obliterate Firon to our own profit, no matter what anyone else might say about it. Second, arrange for a marriage that will combine two princedoms under my nephew, no matter what the two young people involved think or feel. Third, oust the Lord of Waes and his wife for the crime of being mistaken, so that Clutha may have the city as a present with our good wishes. Oh—and replace all those others who opposed us with persons of our own choosing. Are these the general ideas? Am I accurate in my interpretation?”

  Pandsala compressed her lips for a moment, then said, “Yes, your grace.”

  Andrade frowned slightly, then nodded. “Reluctantly, yes.”

  “Reluctantly! Sweet Goddess! You, Pandsala, I might excuse, for you know me little for all that you’ve been Pol’s regent so many years. But you, Andrade! You’ve known Rohan and me since we were children! You can propose such things?”

  “On behalf of the dream we share—yes!”

  “We share nothing!” She stood, fists clenched, glaring at the two women. “How dare you suggest this! As if Rohan would destroy princes and princedoms to create new ones more to his liking! As if you and we shared a dream!”

  Andrade sat forward in her chair, white with fury. “And will you let this go on and on—all the petty rivalries, the threats to Pol? What I dream is a consolidation of all princedoms under your son as High Prince!”

  “The Sunrunner High Prince!”

  “And why not? Rohan started it by taking Princemarch and setting up the unification of Kierst and Isel! What was he aiming at, if not what I’ve outlined to you? When will there be a better time to achieve it all? When Masul is seen as the liar he is, all those who supported him must be punished! What cleaner way to rid yourselves of enemies and unite their princedoms under Rohan? Or do you want him to do it in the field, with blood soaking into the lands Pol will rule? Rohan, who long ago put up his sword and swore never to wield it in battle again! You can balk with pretty questions of conscience at this chance to do everything at one stroke?”

  Sioned took the few paces that separated them and bent, gripping the arms of Andrade’s chair, until their faces were only a breath apart. “His dream and mine is a union of princedoms under laws agreed to by all, enforced not by the sword but by honor and belief that those laws are better than the sword! Your dream is to arrange the world to your liking, with Rohan as the figurehead!”

  “Not him, your grace,” Pandsala said clearly. “Pol.”

  She whirled on the regent. “You’d give him a legacy such as this? Lands seized, holdings absorbed, princedoms smashed together without regard to laws or the people those laws were meant to serve, princes thrown out of their castles—or were you planning to kill them all?”

  “And what legacy will come otherwise?” she countered. “Opposition from all corners, princedoms up for sale to the strongest sword!”

  “Lands held together by consent!” she snapped. “Not by some unholy patchwork—with a pack of embittered former princes plotting to regain their lands, the Merida multiplied tenfold!”

  “Then kill them,” Pandsala said simply. “There will be time for laws later, after your rule is consolidated.”

  “After my husband has lost the trust of all princes!”

  “They’ll agree with whatever he says, and live by it!”

  “You mean they’ll live with his sword at their throats! I won’t live that way, Pandsala—and that’s not the world we’re going to leave our son!”

  “But you’re going to take Firon, aren’t you?” Andrade interposed shrewdly.

  Sioned drew back. “If the Fironese wish it, and if the other princes agree according to law—”

  “A nice salve to Rohan’s tender conscience! You sound more like him than yourself, Sioned. I taught you to be more practical.”

  “You taught me many things, Andrade—some of which I know you wish I’d never learned. But my husband has taught me much more. Yes, we’ll take Firon, within the law. Don’t you understand? I know you scorn his need to make all of it legal and proper when he could simply grab what he wants and have done with it. But don’t you see? What would that make of him, and the laws he helped to write? If he doesn’t abide by the law, then who will?”

  “I’m trying to show him there’s a chance to extend his rule of law from one end of this continent to the other! He can do it all now, things that would take the rest of his life to accomplish if he plays the honorable and noble-minded prince! Goddess, why can you not see? Zehava had the sword for it, but not the cunning. Rohan—”

  “You’d make him into another Roelstra,” Sioned told her icily. “If that’s what you want, give your support to Masul!”

  Andrade pushed herself to her feet, white-faced and trembling with fury. “You fool! You told me you still wore your rings! I gave you a world wrapped in a silver ribbon, and you—”

  “You gave me nothing but the rings I indeed no longer wear—that are like scars around my fingers and my mind!”

  Sioned was trembling, too. It was the old battle between them, Sioned’s heart-deep commitment to Rohan battling Andrade’s adamant demand for obedience. They had thrown the words at each other before, but never this openly, never with Sioned’s defiant disobedience confronting Andrade’s imperious verdict of betrayal.

  “You’re like me, Sioned.” The Lady’s voice scathed like a whiplash. “Your schemes are only variations on my own. Yes, I’ve known you and Rohan since you were children. I made you what you are, both of you. And I made your son, too, through you.”

  “You’re a spider!” Sioned retorted. “Weaving sunlight and moonlight like a web to trap and poison us all! You want everything to belong to you, bec
ause you’ve never belonged to anything! I’m not yours! Neither is Rohan, and neither is Pol!”

  “You’re the one who doesn’t understand. What can be your goal, if not consolidation of all princedoms under him? As both High Prince and faradhi, trained by me—”

  “Never. ”

  That was the single word that could break Andrade, in this battle she could only lose. Sioned saw it in her eyes, the sudden shattering of her anger, leaving only a pitiable plea; she saw it, and felt vicious satisfaction.

  “I will be the one to teach him,” she went on. “Not you. And you’d better hope you made Rohan and me as well as you believe you did, Andrade—for what Pol will be, we will make.”

  “No!” she gasped, betrayed into the cry by panic. “You cannot!” But pride flooded back almost at once, flushing color into her ashen cheeks. She swept from the tent in a furious rush of silk skirts. After a moment, Pandsala followed.

  Sioned stood alone, quivering, ashamed to realize that Andrade had been right about one thing: the words were Rohan’s, not hers. And she admitted to herself how close she had been to casting aside her husband’s honor and agreeing wholeheartedly with Andrade.

  All during childhood and youth she had been taught to obey Andrade without thought or question. Rohan had been raised a prince to rule and to give orders, not to obey as Sioned had been taught. It had been so easy, so safe to do as bidden and not ask why. But the power of a High Prince and his Sunrunner Princess necessitated constant questioning. Sometimes Sioned wished she could simply give over the responsibility and obey the orders of others. But she could not. Rohan had shown her that it was impossible.

  Tobin had no such scruples. But then, Tobin had nowhere near the power Sioned possessed. Chay evidenced no conflicts. But however high his station, Chay was a vassal of the High Prince, sworn to obey him in all things. Chay had absolute faith in Rohan. He might question, but he trusted totally, and obeyed.