Graypearl, Prince Lleyn’s elegant jewel box of a palace, nestled atop its hill in a sculpted setting of lush spring grass and flowering trees. Built of stone that gleamed at dawn and sunset with the subtle iridescence from which it drew its name, it was one of the few princely residences that had never been a fortress. No defensive architecture had ever been needed on the island of Dorval, at peace with itself and the nearby continent for longer than anyone’s great-grandfather could remember. Graypearl’s towers had been fashioned for beauty, not war.
Gardens spread in curved terraces overlooking a tiny harbor where boats sailed out in season to harvest the pearl beds. A small army of groundskeepers kept the luxuriant spring growth of flowers, herbs, and trees from running riot—but no one could impose similar order on the boy who ran an intricate pattern between the rose trees, kicking a deerhide ball before him. He was a slight youth, rather small for his fourteen winters. But there was the promise of height in his long bones and he moved with an agility that older squires had reason to bemoan in games of skill with blunted knives and wooden swords. Dark blond hair crowned a clever oval face whose most vivid feature was a pair of large, fine eyes that changed from blue to green depending on his mood and the color of his clothes. It was a quick face, intelligent and sensitive, with its share of inherent pride in bones which were becoming more visible as his features lost their childish roundness. But there was nothing about him to suggest that he was anything more than a squire fostered to Prince Lleyn’s court for training, released from afternoon duties and playing happily by himself in the gardens. Certainly there was no indication that he was the only son of the High Prince, destined to inherit not only his father’s Desert lands but those of Princemarch as well.
Princess Audrite, wife of Lleyn’s heir Chadric, watched the boy with an indulgent smile. Her own sons had gone to other courts just as this youth had, and returned as young knights skilled in all the graces—not her little boys anymore. She spared a sigh for having missed their growing years, but other youngsters had filled up her time and, some of them, portions of her heart. Maarken, Lord Chaynal of Radzyn’s eldest son and cousin to the boy playing in the gardens, had been one of her favorites, with his swift mind and sunny smiles. But this golden princeling she watched now was special. Made of air and light he was, with a temper like flashfire through summer- dry timber and a streak of mischief that had more than once landed him in trouble. In fact, he ought not to have been excused his duties like the other squires this afternoon, for he still owed her the copying of a hundred lines of verses after a misdemeanor yesterday in the kitchens-something involving a large quantity of pepper and an exploding fish bladder. She was not sure she wanted to know the particulars. An inventive mind, had young Pol, and Audrite chuckled in spite of herself. She had chosen a most appropriate punishment by selecting poetry for him to copy; had she specified a hundred mathematical problems, he would have completed them in a wink and considered it no punishment at all.
The princess shook out her thin silk gown and settled on a bench, not wishing to interrupt Pol’s game until she had found the right phrases for what she had to tell him. But all at once the deerhide ball shot past her, propelled by an enthusiastic kick, and the boy skidded to a stop before her. Surprised by her presence, he nevertheless gave her a bow worthy of the most elegant young lord. “Your pardon, my lady. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” “It’s all right, Pol. Actually, I came here looking for you and thought I’d sit in the shade for a little while. It’s quite hot this spring, isn’t it?”
He was not yet skilled enough in the art of polite conversation to take her lead on to further chat about the weather. “Do you have news for me, my lady?”
Audrite chose to be as direct as he. “Your father has asked permission to take you away from us for a time.
He wants you to go home to Stronghold by way of Rad-zyn, then to the Rialla with him and your mother.”
Excitement shone in the young face. “Home? Really?” Then, realizing that his reaction might be taken amiss, he hurried on, “I mean, I like it here and I’ll miss you and my lord Chadric and my friends—“
“And we’ll miss you, Pol.” Audrite smiled her understanding. “But we’ll bring you back to Graypearl with us after the Rialla so you may continue your training. It’s unusual, you know, for a squire to be allowed a holiday from the work he must do in order to become a knight and a gentleman. Do you think what you’ve learned thus far is enough to uphold Prince Lleyn’s reputation?”
Pol gave her a cheerful grin. “If it isn’t, then Father will know it’s my fault, not anyone else’s!”
Audrite grinned back. “Yes, we had a long letter about you when you first came to us.”
“But I was just a child then,” he assured her, blithely forgetting the transgression of the previous day. “I won’t do anything to embarrass anyone. I’ve outgrown all that.” He paused, glancing at the sea far below. “Except—I’ll have to cross water, won’t I? I’ll try to behave better than I did the first time.”
The princess ruffled his blond hair. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Pol. Indeed, you ought to be proud. AH Sunrunners lose their dignity along with their breakfast when they cross water.”
“But I’m a prince, and I should be in better control of myself.” He sighed. “Oh, well. Once to Radzyn and once coming back—I suppose it won’t be too bad.”
“There’s a silk-ship leaving in two days for Radzyn port, and Prince Lleyn has bespoken a place for you on it. He’s sending Meath with you for company.”
Pol made a face halfway between a grin and a grimace. “Then we can be sick together!”
“I’m convinced it’s the Goddess’ way of keeping you faradh’im humble! Why don’t you go upstairs now and start packing?”
“I will, my lady. And tomorrow—“ He hesitated, then went on, “Could I go down to the harbor and find presents for my mother and Aunt Tobin? I’ve saved almost everything Father’s sent me since I got here, so I’ve money enough.”
He had the right instincts; he was already generous and thoughtful about pleasing ladies. That face and those eyes would be breaking hearts before he was too much older, Audrite reflected, and relished the notion that she would be around to watch. “You and Meath may be excused tomorrow for the day. But I seem to recall you have a certain project to complete for me first. How many lines was it?”
“Fifty?” he asked hopefully, then sighed. “One hundred. I’ll have them done by tonight, my lady.”
“If they’re not in my hands until tomorrow evening, I’ll understand,” she suggested, winning another of his wide smiles and a bow of thanks. Then he ran back up the terraces to the palace.
Audrite spent a few more moments enjoying the shade before she, too, left the gardens. Her steps were lithe and energetic as she climbed; a passion for riding had kept her slim and supple for all her forty-nine winters. She unlatched the gate that led into the private enclave and paused to admire the oratory that rose like a shining gem from the formal gardens. It was said that the one at Castle Crag, a crystal dome built into the side of the cliffs there, was the most splendid in all the thirteen princedoms, but she could imagine nothing more beautiful than this oratory at Graypearl—and not only because she had had a great deal to do with its construction.
Carved stone columns had been taken from an abandoned keep on the other side of the island to support walls of pale wood and brilliant stained glass. The painted wooden ceiling rose far above, punctuated with small, clear windows in an uneven pattern that looked random but was not. It could be said that the oratory was in reality a temple: lit by the Fire of sun and moons, open to the Air, built of the things of the Earth, and circled by a stream of Water that irrigated the gardens below. Audrite crossed the little footbridge and stepped between the columns, catching her breath as always at the beauty of the place. It was like walking into a rainbow. And if standing here embraced by all the colors in the world was a moving experience for her, it must be near ecstacy for faradh ‘im.
The ceiling had been the hardest to reconstruct. Some of its supports had been demolished, and it had taken years of study for Audrite to discern the proper placement of windows. The tiled floor had been painstakingly lifted from the soil and overgrown grasses on the far side of Dorval, and was marked with various symbols for the seasons and indicated the position and phases of the three moons on any given night of the year. Audrite had spent years checking its accuracy, and several new tiles had been fashioned at her direction to replace ones worn or broken long ago at the other keep. Her calculations on the exact relationship of ceiling to tiles, and the observations of Lleyn’s Sunrunners, Meath and Eolie, had awed everyone. For the original design of this oratory had been correct down to the slightest nuance.
Twenty-one years ago, Prince Lleyn had learned from Lady Andrade—she who ruled Goddess Keep and all Sunrunners—that the abandoned castle had once belonged to the faradh ‘im. Stone had been taken from it for hundreds of years to construct other places, including Graypearl, but on Lleyn’s return from the Rialla that autumn an excavation had begun in earnest. This master-work had been their most important find, save one. Audrite walked softly over the summer tiles, a smile on her face for the sheer beauty of the oratory and the sheer joy of understanding it. The structure had become again what it had been meant to be: the most remarkable calendar in all the princedoms.
She heard steps on the footbridge and turned. Meath entered the oratory and bowed a greeting. “Full moons tonight,” he said, smiling as he shared her delight at their knowledge.
“You can use them to contact Princess Sioned,” Audrite told him.
“You’ve talked to Pol, then?”
“Yes. I’ll have to give you my notes on the scrolls.” She frowned slightly. “Meath, do you think it’s wise to give them to Andrade now? She’s very old. It may be that she won’t have time to discover their meaning—and .it may also be that the next Lady or Lord of Goddess Keep won’t use the knowledge wisely.”
Thefaradhi shrugged and spread his hands wide, rings glinting in the colored sunlight. “I’m convinced she’ll outlive us all, if only through pure cussedness.” He smiled, then shook his head. “As for the other thing—I agree that it’s a risk. But I’d rather have Andrade examine the scrolls now and decide what to do with them than wait and see who next rules Goddess Keep.”
“You were the one who found them,” she said slowly. “I’ve helped with as many of the words as I could—and, Goddess knows, there wasn’t much I fully understood,” she added regretfully. “But the responsibility for them is yours.”
“Well, it’s true that I dug them out of the rubble, but I’d prefer not to have the choice of what’s done with them. If they’re as important as we suspect, then it’s knowledge I’m not qualified to deal with. I’d rather see the scrolls in Andrade’s hands, not mine. She’ll either understand them and use them, or destroy them if they’re too dangerous.”
Audrite nodded. “Come by my library later tonight and I’ll give you my notes.”
“Thank you, my lady. Andrade will appreciate it, I know.” He smiled again. “I wish you could be there to see her face!”
“So do I. I just hope the shock isn’t too much for her.”
* * *
The hundred lines of verse duly copied and presented to Princess Audrite, Pol was free by late morning to ride to the harbor with Meath. Shops snuggled along the village’s narrow main street, not as varied in their wares as the stores in Dorval’s main shipping center down the coast or in Radzyn’s port. But there were interesting things to be had here—crafts native to the island and not much traded elsewhere, small items made of silk remnants, jewelry cunningly fashioned to hide defects in pearls not suitable for the general market. Pol and Meath tied their horses in front of a dockside inn where they planned to have lunch later, and walked up and down the street, window-shopping.
The merchants all knew Pol, of course, and were of two attitudes when it came to selling him things. Some, aware of his father’s great wealth, quoted outrageous prices in hopes of siphoning off a little of that wealth for themselves. Others cared more about royal favor, and un-derpriced their wares in a shameless bid for Pol’s further patronage. The young prince usually did his looking through the windows, then consulted with companions on the fair price of goods that caught his eye before making his purchases. Patient for the first and second tours up and down the street, Meath finally asked Pol if he intended to spend all day at this. A third perusal was all the Sunrunner would stand for; he ordered the boy back to the inn for sustenance.
Prince Lleyn did not tolerate seafaring roughnecks in this port. He discouraged them elsewhere, naturally, but here in the precincts of his palace they were forbidden. Thus everything catering to such men—taverns where strong drink was served and brawls were common, disreputable lodgings where they bedded down between voyages, and the girls they bedded down with—were missing from Graypearl’s little harbor. The law assured domestic peace and the safety of the residents as well as of the highborn youths who came to Dorval as squires, and the old prince himself often ventured down to the port for a meal or a day’s ramble in the fresh air. The inn Meath chose was one Lleyn had introduced him to years ago, a clean and merry establishment perfectly safe for the heir to the High Prince. But even if it had not been, Meath’s great height, broad shoulders, and faradhi rings would have ensured Pol’s safety.
“Goddess greeting to you, Sunrunner! And to the young master, as well!” The innkeeper, Giamo by name, came out from behind his counter and bowed his respects before escorting them to a table. “Honored to be of service to you both! Now, we’ve some fine cold roast today, and bread right out of the oven, and the first berries of the season, so sweet that they don’t need any honey dol-loped on them—although my good wife having a tooth for it, she slathers it on anyway! Will that suit?”
“Perfectly,” Meath said with a happy sigh. “You can add a tankard for me and something appropriate for my friend, here.”
Pol cast him a deeply reproachful look, and when the innkeeper had gone to fetch the meal said, “What’s ‘appropriate’ for me, anyway? A glass of milk? I’m not a baby, Meath!”
“No, but not tall or hefty enough for a bout with the ale Giamo brews, either. Not at just over fourteen winters! Put on a few fingers’ height and some flesh on those bones, and then we’ll see.” Meath grinned. “Besides, all I lack is your mother raving at me for letting you get drunk.”
Pol made a face, then turned his attention to the other noontime patrons of the inn. There were a few pearl-fishers, easily identifiable by their lean, lithe bodies, well-developed chest muscles, and the scars on their hands from digging shells out of rock crevices. Skin weathered by sea and salt had paled a little during the winter months, but soon they would be out in their small boats again, browned from head to heels by summer sun during the annual harvest. Lleyn’s squires often enjoyed the treat of a day’s sail in the pearl coves—but not Pol. The first time he’d taken a look at those tiny, flat-bottomed boats bobbing gently at their moorings, he’d been most humili-atingly sick.
In one corner of the room a pair of merchants haggled pleasantly over their meal, swatches of silk on the table between them. A young man wooed a pretty girl nearby, their lunch forgotten as he whispered in her ear and sent her into gales of laughter. Near the door sat five soldiers, four men and a middle-aged woman, all dressed in light harness but without swords, according to the law here. They wore the solid red tunics and the white candle badge of Prince Velden of Grib.
“Meath?” Pol asked softly. “What are they doing at Graypearl?”
“Who?” he glanced around. “Oh, them. The Gribain ambassador got in this morning. Something about arranging silk trade.”
“But there’s been a treaty forever that says all silk goes through Radzyn.”
“Well, they can try to convince Lleyn, can’t they? But
I don’t think they’ll get anywhere. I wouldn’t be too worried for your uncle’s revenues—or your own,” he finished teasingly.
Pol bristled. “Dorval can do as it likes with its silks—“
“As long as the Desert sees the profits?” Meath laughed, then held up a placating hand as blue-green eyes began to flash. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”
“I was talking about treaties and the law, not profits,” Pol said sternly.
“I think you’ll find such things are flexible when it comes to making money.”
“Not since my father’s been High Prince,” he stated. “The law is the law, and he sees to it that laws are obeyed.”
“Well, it’s all beyond a simple Sunrunner like me, your grace,” Meath said, barely controlling another smile.
Giamo arrived with a tray, and set before them two huge plates of food, a tankard of ale for Meath, and a Fironese crystal goblet filled with a clear, pale pink liquid that frothed gently with golden bubbles. Pol took a sip under his host’s watchful eye, and smiled in delight. “Wonderful! What is it?”
“My own brewing,” Giamo answered, pleased. “The most delicate and refined of ciders, barely blushing.”
“It tastes just like spring itself,” Pol said. “And I’m honored by the goblet it’s served in.”
“The honor is my wife’s,” Giamo replied with a bow. “It’s not every woman can say that so important a lord has eaten at her table and sipped from her most treasured possession.”
“If she’s not too busy, then perhaps I can visit her in the kitchen and thank her.”
“After you’ve finished your meal in peace,” Giamo grinned. “My good wife Willa could talk the tail off a dragon.”
Sunrunner and prince dug into the food. The healthy appetites of a growing boy and a large, active man required seconds; Meath requested a third piling of meat and flaky bread, and Pol was sincerely sorry that he was too full to do likewise. He lingered over a dish of berries in honey glaze and sipped at his cider, wondering if he might persuade Giamo to part with a bottle as a gift for his mother, who adored fine wines.
The pearl-fishers had gone, replaced by a trio of shipwrights come to enjoy a few tankards of ale. The young man and the girl were now being teased by the two silk merchants; Pol grinned to himself as the couple blushed. In a few years that would be him over there, enjoying the company of a charming lady. But he was in no hurry.
Replete at last, Meath leaned back with tankard in hand, ready for conversation again. “You didn’t say if there was anything in the shops you liked well enough to buy.”
“Well . . . the green silk slippers were pretty, and that comb of pearl shell. But Prince Chadric told me that a man should never buy a gift for a lady unless he takes one look at it and can see her wearing it or using it.”
The Sunrunner laughed. “An excellent policy—and doubtless the reason Audrite always looks so lovely.”
“You might try his advice out on that new maid in the west wing,” Pol said, his eyes at their widest and most innocent. “I hear you haven’t had much luck so far.”
Meath spluttered on a swallow of ale. “How did you know about—“
Pol only laughed.
Willa, Giamo’s wife, emerged from her kitchen then, wiping her hands on her apron and obviously intending to gather compliments from her exalted guest. The merchants had risen to leave, still arguing amiably over their silk. The young girl squealed, “Oh, Rialt, you’re terrible!” in response to some sally of her companion’s; the shipwrights laughed in response and raised their cups to him. All was warm good cheer—until one of the soldiers suddenly shoved his chair back and sprang to his feet, growling a difference of opinion that turned every head in the room. Meath saw the glint of steel and rose, his substantial frame instinctively placed between the soldiers and Pol. The merchants, caught between their table and the angry Gribains by the door, sent a look of frantic appeal to the Sunrunner, and he nodded reassurance.
“Here, now,” Meath said casually. “You can settle this outside, can’t you?”
Usually his height, his breadth of shoulder, and his rings made his point. But these were seasoned troopers, angry and resentful of any interference, even that of a faradhi. The bearded one who seemed to have started the quarrel snarled, “It’s no concern of yours, Sunrunner.”
“Put the knife away,” Meath replied, his voice less pleasant now. The merchants were trying to slip past, silk swatches rustling in their clenched hands, and the girl had shrunk back in her chair.
Willa marched forward, hands on hips. “How dare you threaten the peace of this inn?” she demanded. “And in the presence of—“
Meath interrupted before she could identify Pol. “Get out of here before you make a very serious mistake, my friends.”
The woman—their captain judging by the braid at her throat—drew her own knife. “You have a loud and offensive mouth, faradhi. And you are mistaken in using that tone to members of Prince Velden’s own guard.”
The bearded man brought up his knife in obvious threat, sunlight through the windows striking silver off the blade, and the innkeeper’s wife shrieked a protest. The merchants tried to vanish behind a couple of chairs. And the knife sped through an abrupt silence toward Meath’s chest.
“No!” a young voice cried. Meath rocked easily out of the knife’s path as a fountain of Sun runner’s Fire rose from the middle of the soldiers’ table. They yelled and leaped back, and in that precious moment of their star-tlement Meath surged toward them. He slammed two into the wall and shoved the woman at the terrified merchants. Rialt shook off his girlfriend’s clutching hand, jumped to his feet, and launched himself at the bearded soldier. The three shipwrights, bulky muscles barely covered by thin shirts, hastily downed the last of their ale before leaping up to join the fight.
By brawl’s end, Meath had a sore jaw and a shallow slit in his arm. Neither deterred him from overturning a table on top of the Gribain who was foolish enough not to stay where Rialt had kicked him. Two of the shipwrights were holding a second soldier so Rialt could take whatever punches he liked; Willa was engaged in tying up the unconscious woman with knotted napkins. The fourth soldier had gone headfirst into the brick hearth; the fifth sprawled on the floor, and the shipwright seated casually on the Gribain’s spine looked up with a grin at Meath.
“Many thanks for the entertainment, my lord Sunrun-ner! I haven’t had so much fun since I worked over to the other port!”
“My pleasure,” Meath answered, and looked around for Pol. The boy was administering ale to the white-faced girl. He was unhurt, and Meath felt relief shake his knees just a little. He didn’t want to consider what he would have told Sioned if her son had been injured.
Giamo puffed up the cellar stairs and gave a shocked cry. Meath patted his shoulder.
“All taken care of. But I’m afraid we’ve made a shambles of your room.” He glanced down as capable hands went to work on his wounded arm. “It’s nothing,” he told Willa.
“Nothing?” She snorted and tied off the bandage she had made with strips torn from her apron. “Nothing that could have been deaths in my house, that’s what nothing! Now, you find out who these ruffians are and what they’re about while I find some good strong wine to restore the blood you’ve lost.”
Meath was about to protest that it was only a scratch-then remembered the glorious wine Prince Lleyn had treated him to at this very inn last autumn. He nodded enthusiastic approval and Willa snorted once more.
There were more casualties among the furniture and plates than among the people involved. Rialt would have a sore shoulder for a few days, and the merchants’ dignity had been more bruised than their backsides. Meath righted an overturned chair, tested it for soundness, and pointed to the Gribain commander, who sat on the floor with her hands bound behind her. “Have a seat,” h« invited.
Sullenly and awkwardly, she obeyed. Her red tunic was a little darker along one shoulder, but Meath judged the wound to be superficial. Of her companions, three would have very bad headaches and the other would not be walking entirely upright for a while. After assuring him- self of their relative good health, Meath stood before their captain with arms folded, unimpressed by her arrogant demand to be released on the instant.
“Captain,” he told her, “I don’t care if you stand guard outside Prince Velden’s own bedchamber while he favors his wife with his attentions. You know the law here.”
“It was a private matter between me and my men,” she snapped. “You have no right—“
“I have the right of any man or woman to make sure the law is obeyed. I want several things, and I want them now: your name, those of your men, and the reason for this outrage against Prince Lleyn’s peace. And then you may make your- apologies as well as restitution to those you’ve offended here today.”
“Apologies!” She sucked in a breath and glared at him.
Meath glanced down as Pol plucked at his sleeve. “What is it?”
“I’ve sent Giamo to fetch the patrol. They should be here soon.”
“Good thinking. Thanks.” The boy looked a little pale, but seemed in perfect control of himself. “Are you all right?”
“Fine. But I don’t think this was any simple disagreement,” he added thoughtfully. “In fact, I’m sure the one with the beard started it on purpose.”
Meath was almost afraid to find out why. Neither was he looking forward to an explanation about Pol’s conjuring of Fire. Meath and Eolie had never shown him how. Perhaps Sioned had before Pol left Stronghold, but somehow Meath doubted it. Pol would have told him.
The faradhi looked down into clear eyes. “Why would he start a fight?” he asked quietly.
“Because he wanted to kill me.” Pol shrugged. “Rialt kept him from throwing his second knife. You were busy with the others and didn’t see. But he wasn’t aiming at you the first time, either. He was after we.”
It wasn’t natural for a fourteen-year-old to speak so calmly about such things. Meath started to put an arm around his shoulders, but Pol slid away and went to the cellar door, where Willa had just appeared with clay mugs of wine. Pol appropriated one and took a long swallow, then helped her serve the rest. Meath downed the contents of his mug in two gulps and then approached the man who lay trapped and unconscious beneath the overturned table.
He was unremarkable in every way—height, weight, coloring, features—and that very plainness signaled dan- ; ger. Who would notice this man, but for the uniform and the beard? Yet both were too easy to identify, and Meath could not help but wonder about them. Even if Velden of Grib had had a compelling reason to kill Pol, Meath couldn’t believe anyone was stupid enough to send an assassin dressed in the colors of his own princedom— unless he counted on everyone’s assuming that no one would be that stupid. Intricate schemes made Meath’s head ache. And he could just hear himself accusing a ruling prince of attempted murder. It was much easier to absolve Velden of complicity and decide that the uniform was borrowed protection, gaining the assassin access to Graypearl as part of the Gribain suite, with chance placing the soldiers here at the inn at the same time as Pol.
Besides, there was the beard—a disguise that could be discarded almost as easily as the uniform. Meath crouched down to peer at the man’s face.
“What are you looking for?” Pol asked over his shoulder.
“I’m not sure,” Meath admitted. “I don’t think he’s had his beard very long. It’s uneven and hasn’t grown long enough to trim neatly. And that place on his chin is practically bald.”
The boy knelt and fingered the beard. When he met the Sunrunner’s eyes, his own were haunted. “Merida,” he whispered.
“Impossible. They were all but wiped out the year you were born. Walvis got them at the Battle of Tiglath.”
“Merida,” Pol repeated stubbornly. “The scar’s on his chin in just the right place. They’re trained assassins. And who else would want to kill me?”
Meath heard reaction beginning at last as Pol’s voice rose slightly, and he pulled the boy to his feet. He snagged another cup of wine from the tray on the table and gave it to Pol after seating him firmly in a chair.
Rohan had sent his son to Dorval for its safety, with the understanding that Meath, Sioned’s friend since their student days at Goddess Keep, would act as bodyguard whenever the boy was not in the immediate confines of Graypearl. Meath’s hands shook as he thought about what might have happened here today.
Pol’s color and poise had come back. He complimented the merchants and shipwrights on their fighting skills, speaking as easily as if this had been a simple tavern brawl, not an attempt to kill him. But Lleyn’s carefree squire had vanished, replaced by a young man who now knew how much his death was worth. Rohan and Sioned would find that their son had taken a very long step toward manhood in the space of a few moments. Pol’s identity known by now, as he thanked Rialt for his quickness the low bow he received seemed to embarrass him. This reassured Meath for reasons he did not immediately understand.
The patrol arrived and Meath was glad to hand over the prisoners to their keeping. They would be brought before Prince Lleyn; he looked grimly forward to hearing the Merida explain himself.
“I’m sorry about the damage,” Pol was saying to Giamo. “And your goblet was broken. I’ll find a replacement for it at the Rialla, I promise.”
“My goblet?” Willa exclaimed. “Great Goddess watch over us, what’s a foolish goblet? If your Sunrunner hadn’t called Fire and startled them so much, more than my goblet and a few sticks of furniture would have been broken!”
Pol did not correct her impression that the Fire had been of Meath’s making. “Well, just the same, you’ll get another Fironese crystal when I return this autumn.”
One of the merchants cleared his throat. “Well-spoken, your grace. But I differ with good Willa here. It was your shout that distracted them and probably saved me a bloodletting—if not my life. It may be the duty of a prince to be brave, but courage always deserves a reward.”
“We know you’d not accept anything for yourself,” said his companion. “But come to our warehouses when you’ve time and choose whatever you fancy would suit your lady mother’s famous beauty.”
Pol began a protest, but Meath interrupted smoothly, [ “You’re very generous, and on High Princess Sioned’s behalf, we accept.” Refusal would have offended, and Pol did not yet know enough about being a prince to understand that. It was in the nature of most people to ; believe that highborns were special, braver and better \ than ordinary folk. They must be trusted to govern the princedoms and holdings, and if they were not better, then what hope was there? A tribute of fine silk would symbolize the belief as surely as Willa would find justification of it in her new goblet. Pol’s instincts had guided him correctly there, even if he did not yet understand that he did something far more important than provide restitution for something broken.
But he did know enough to take Meath’s lead. “Thank you. My mother will be very grateful. Will you be at Waes this year to see her wearing your silk?”
“Dragons couldn’t keep us away, your grace.” The pair swept him elegant bows, and Pol smiled. Only Meath saw the brief flash of amusement in the blue-green eyes.
Later, on the ride back to Graypearl, Meath held his tongue and wondered how to explain this to Prince Lleyn. The events themselves were straightforward enough, but he worried about the Merida and the calling of Fire. Halfway up the hill he glanced over at Pol and said, “You know, there were probably easier ways of saving yourself the expense of buying a present for your mother.”
“Is that the tale you’re going to tell her?”
“I just might. But what I’m really thinking about is your little display of Fire. Oh, I’m not complaining, mind. They were startled and thus didn’t fight well. And you didn’t even leave a burn scar on the table,” he approved.
“Maybe Lady Andrade will give me my first ring,” Pol replied lightly.
“And maybe you’d better tell me who taught you how to do that,” Meath said, unsmiling.
“No one. I just—I needed to distract them, and it seemed the best way.”
Meath stared between his horse’s ears at the road ahead. “You’ve the heritage on both sides, so I guess it’s not surprising that you gave in to your instincts.” He reined in beneath a shade tree, and Pol did the same. Meath looked the boy full in the face, holding his gaze with deliberate intent. “Do I have to tell you how dangerous your instincts can be, my prince?”
The use of title rather than name made Po! gulp. But he could not look away from Meath’s eyes. The Sunrun-ner speculated on how long he would be able to influence Pol this way. It was something all faradh ‘im learned from Lady Andrade during training, this absolute concentration that captured another as surely as a dragon could spear a sheep or a deer with a single look. Holding Pol’s gaze, it occurred to him that despite their coloring the boy’s eyes had nothing of the sea. There was sunlit Desert sky in them, limitless blue like his father’s eyes; there were emeralds, too, bright as the one his mother wore on her finger, the color of moonlight through a leaf. But not the sea, not for this son of the Desert.
Meath lifted his hands so his rings caught the light drifting down through the shade above them. “My father was a metalsmith in Gilad, and my mother was a fisherman’s daughter who hated the sight of the sea. It was from her that I received the gifts that made me & faradhi. The first of these rings is for calling Fire. It took me three years of training before I earned it. I was past twenty before I was worthy of my fourth ring, and two years older than that before I received my fifth and sixth. It may be you have more of the gift than I—but you also have more to lose by it than I ever did.”
“More to lose?” Pol frowned, bewildered. “Don’t you mean more to gain?”
“No,” Meath said in harsh tones. “You were born to two kinds of power. You’re a prince and one day you’ll be a Sunrunner.”
“And I could lose all of it, is that what you mean?” the boy whispered, his fingers white-knuckled around the reins. “Meath—“
“Yes?” He lowered his hands to the horse’s neck.
“You’re right to scare me with it. Did you do the same for Maarken?”
“I did.” He consciously relinquished control of the blue-green eyes, and the blond head bent. Meath knew this lesson ought to have come from Sioned—who herself knew both kinds of power. But the right time was now, and he had to make sure the right lesson was learned. “It scared me, too,” he admitted. “Every day of my life, until I learned to know myself. That’s what the training at Goddess Keep is for, Pol. It teaches you how to use your instincts and your powers, but it also teaches you when not to use them. It’s the same way with your training as a squire and a knight. You’re learning your powers as a warrior and a prince.”
“But there’s one thing a prince sometimes has to do that Sunrunners are forbidden.”
Meath nodded. “Faradh’im must never use the gift to kill. When you know and trust yourself, Pol, you won’t be afraid.” He brushed the boy’s shoulder with his fingertips, rings glinting. “Come, let’s ride on. It’s getting late.”
They were nearly to the gates when Pol spoke again. “Meath? Did I do the right thing today?”
“Is that for me to say, or you?”
“I think—I think I did. No, I’m sure of it.” As they rode below the stone archway he added, “But you know, it’s the stupidest thing. I can’t stop thinking about Willa’s broken goblet.”
They separated at the stables, Pol to report to the Master of Squires and Meath to inform Chadric and Audrite of the day’s events. Word and the prisoners had gone ahead, and Lleyn was even now interviewing the Gribain captain. Chadric’s eldest son, Ludhil, brought the ominous news that the bearded soldier had somehow managed to hang himself in his cell.
Lleyn came into Audrite’s solar a short time later. Past eighty, frail as parchment stretched over brittle glass, he leaned on a wooden cane and refused the assistance of his son and grandson in taking a seat. Narrowing his fine, faded eyes at Meath, he folded his hands over the cane’s carved dragon’s head handle and said, “Well?”
“From your expression, my lord, the Gribain captain knows nothing of the Merida’s origins and has nothing to say about the cause of the argument.” Meath shrugged. “I imagine she is telling the truth.”
“I’m not interested in imagination,” Lleyn snapped. “I want to know what happened.”
“Pol believes the Merida provoked the fight on purpose. And since he killed himself, I’d say he had something to hide.”
“But why attempt Pol’s life now?” Chadric asked. “Surely they had plenty of chances while he still lived at Stronghold.”
“You should pay more attention to rumors,” his father told him. As Audrite caught her breath, Lleyn nodded. “I see you’ve taken my meaning, my dear.”
Chadric’s plain, pleasant face tightened to grimness. “If you’re talking about that possible son of Roel-stra’s—“
“He’ll be nearing twenty-one. Pol’s barely fourteen,” Lleyn remarked.
“But it’s ludicrous!” Audrite protested. “Even if the boy is Roelstra’s, he’d have to rally all Princemarch behind him. And that won’t happen. Rohan has done well by them in making Pandsala regent—no one but a fool would trade certain prosperity for an unknown pretender. “
“Nicely put,” Lleyn grunted, fingering the dragon’s head. “But it so happens that Rohan is an honorable fool. He’ll feel compelled to meet this young man and hear him out.”
“No proof one way or the other,” Chadric said. “It’s all supposition.”
Meath said, “Lack of proof makes Roelstra’s supposed son dangerous.”
“There’s Lady Andrade,” Audrite reminded them. “She was there the night of the births.”
“She might know what happened, and she might not,” Lleyn replied. “And for all her authority as Lady of Goddess Keep, she’s also Rohan’s aunt and not exactly an impartial witness.”
Chadric shook his head, rising to pace the solar. “The issue isn’t the pretender’s identity, Father. It comes down to this: Does the claim of someone with Roelstra’s blood weigh more heavily than the years of good governance established by Rohan in lands he won by right of war?”
Lleyn’s eyes sparkled. “I’m gratified to see that my training hasn’t been wasted—and that you inherited your mother’s wits as well as her eyes. You have the right of it, Chadric. Who do we support when and if it comes to it? If this youth is indeed Roelstra’s son, do we take his side and support the blood-claim that keeps all princes in power? Or do we back Rohan and the things he’s done in Princemarch?” He smiled without humor. “It’s not the kind of choice a prince finds comfortable.”
Meath sat forward, elbows propped on his knees. “Your grace, it’s yet to be proved that the person is who some say he is. But even if he isn’t, there will be those who choose to believe—“
“Or act as if they believe,” Lleyn agreed. “Just for the sake of making mischief. Real proof to the contrary will be needed.”
“I see why Pol is suddenly a Merida target,” Audrite said unhappily. “Miyon of Cunaxa still shelters them, though he says he doesn’t. He’s probably behind what happened today. There’ll never be proof, of course. But without Pol to inherit Princemarch, this pretender might be welcomed outright—and Miyon would rather deal with anyone else than Rohan or his son. And I see, too, why Rohan wants the boy with him this summer and at Waes.”
“There’s a progress planned for them to Castle Crag,”
Lleyn affirmed.
Chadric gestured the pretender away with one hand. “Once they see Pol and he wins them the way he does everyone—“
“There’s still the matter of proving this claimant a liar,” Lleyn said. “Do you think people like Miyon will support Pol on the strength of his admittedly charming smile?”
“It’s the people of Princemarch he’ll win,” Chadric said.
“The people of Princemarch do not attend the Rialla and vote on who and what is the truth. Andrade is the only reliable witness and the evidence will have to come from her in a manner the princes will accept as absolute truth.”
“There’s Pandsala,” Meath reminded them. I “Oh, yes, Pandsala.” Lleyn snorted. “May I remind you that if this boy is acclaimed, the regent would be out of a job?” He shook his head. “I don’t like this. Not at all. Meath, before you leave Radzyn for Goddess Keep, make sure you have a long talk with Chay and Tobin.”
Much later, in his own chambers, Meath pulled out the case made for the scrolls dug up at the ancient Sunrunner keep. They were written in the old language; though script had not changed much from modern writing, the words meant nothing to him. Yet certain words survived to the present day nearly unchanged—personal names, for instance, were usually chosen with their ancient meanings in mind—and as he unrolled one of the parchments he bit his lip. The usual sun-and-moons motif was missing from this first page. The sources of light for far-adhi weavings were not depicted here as they were on all the other scrolls. This one had a different pattern, a design of night sky strewn with stars. He stared for a long time at the title that had so shocked him on first seeing it, words he had had no difficulty translating.
On Sorceries.