Sioned was not in the habit of deceiving her husband on any matter, nor had she ever avoided his presence for any reason. How deceive or avoid one’s second self? But she found it necessary to do both during the days after her rescue of Meath and the shocking encounter with the dragon.
Worry about Pol and Tobin, who had reacted badly to the drain on their energies, took up the afternoon and evening. By the time she was certain that both would sleep it off with no real damage done, Sioned was so exhausted she fell into bed, oblivious until the next noon. The arrival of the Lord and Lady of Remagev with their children occupied the rest of that day; their welcome and settling in gave Sioned further opportunity to deceive Ro-han about her troubled thoughts and to avoid being alone with him.
He waited her out, but every time she looked at him the concern in his eyes was deeper. By the third morning he had had enough of waiting, and rather than go downstairs to share breakfast with everyone in the Great Hall, he ordered the meal sent to them in their study. It was understood that they were not to be disturbed—and Sioned knew there would be no fortuitous interruptions, for the command would remain in force until Rohan was satisfied in his own mind about what had occurred on the sunlight.
She sat opposite him at the large fruitwood table that served as their desk, reminded of times at Goddess Keep when she had been called on to explain some misdeed or other. Certainly there was a family resemblance between Rohan and Andrade, emphasized now by the stern set of his features.
Neat piles of letters, blank parchments, writing materials, and the other accoutrements of a voluminous correspondence had been shoved aside to make room for a meal neither of them touched. Near Rohan’s right elbow was the huge book of law and precedent, bound in slightly iridescent green-bronze dragonhide and resting on a carved wooden stand given them by Prince Davvi of Syr, Sioned’s brother. On her side of the table was a matching wooden box that held their various seals: one each for their personal letters, another pair for more formal documents, and the great dragon seal, wide as Sioned’s palm, that was pressed into pendants of blue wax hung from green ribbons on all decrees of the High Prince. Two walls were lined to the ceiling with books, volumes neatly arranged in subject order; a stepladder stood abandoned by the section on geology and metallurgy. The door cramped into a corner, more books above it, and a tapestry map took up most of the third wall. Heavy silk and wool stirred sluggishly in a warm breeze through open windows on the wall to her left.
Sioned loved this room. In it Urival had taught her probably more than he should have offaradhi secrets her first summer at Stronghold, before she had become Rohan’s princess. Here she had learned Desert law and the principles of justice her husband valued so dearly. And for the past twenty-one years she had worked with him in this chamber, governing their lands and planning the future they would give their son. But now she wished guiltily that she was anyplace rather than sitting across from Rohan, his cool blue eyes fixed on her so grimly that she wanted to squirm like a child caught breaking a rule. She held herself still, aware that at this moment he was not her husband but the High Prince. Neither was she his wife; she was his Sunrunner.
“A dragon,” was all he said.
She nodded, deciding to get it over with so she could have her Rohan back. She explained what had happened from the time Meath contacted her on the sunlight, and finished with, “We’ve always suspected dragons are highly intelligent. If I’m right, and they have thought-colors faradh ‘im can perceive, then it may be that they’re even more intelligent that we originally thought.”
“Why has this never happened before? With all the faradh’im weaving sunlight and all the dragons flying Goddess knows where over the years, why didn’t anybody ever ‘bump into’ one before now?”
“Perhaps they did, but didn’t understand it. Or perhaps I’m completely mistaken. But I swear by what I felt, my lord. I touched colors and I felt wings, and so did Maar-ken. Pol and Tobin were safely back here before it happened, so they can’t verify. But Maarken can.”
Rohan placed his hands flat on the table. Like her, he wore only a single ring, a topaz that had been his father’s. The gem had been reset some years ago into a circle of tiny emeralds, tribute to the “color of his wife’s eyes. His hands were lean, powerful, the long fingers bearing faint battle scars; they were hands that could control the most mettlesome horse with ease, or caress her skin as lightly as the merest breath of wind, or wield sword and knife with killing strength. They were the hands of a knight and a prince, but also those of a poet. Sioned could not recall a time when she had not coveted the touch of those hands.
It was a long while before he spoke again, and with his words his fingers drew in to fists, bones standing out pale against sunbrowned skin. “Could you do it again? Touch a dragon?”
Startled, she said the first thing that came into her mind. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Could you?”
She thought for a long moment, then shook her head. “How would I know what to look for? Nobody’s ever thought to memorize the colors of a dragon. And it’s the owner of those colors who discerns their shape and tone, communicates them to others.”
“I remember Andrade explaining it to me when I was little,” he mused. “People are like windows of stained glass, each one unique, colors to be touched and woven with the light the way sun shining through a window throws colors into the air. Sioned, if dragons have those colors, too, and could be taught to understand them, what if we could—I don’t know, speak with them somehow, or see through their eyes? They’ll return to the Desert soon to mate.”
“I don’t think it would be dangerous, my lord—just startling.” She smiled slightly. “You’ve always loved them so much. I’ll try to touch one of your dragons for you.”
He shrugged. “Others don’t see dragons as I do.”
Sioned thought a moment, beginning to frown. “You’d never use them wrongly, but others might. Dragons in battle—if there’s a way to do it, someone will. Goddess, why does everything have to come down to killing?”
A smile played around his lips as he held her gaze, the prince becoming her Rohan again. “My father wanted me to have a wife, the way other princes have wives. He didn’t know Andrade would bring me a princess.”
“If I am, then it’s you who taught me how, beloved.
I’ll try to touch a dragon for you. But don’t expect too much.”
“I expect everything of you—and I’ve never been disappointed.” He glanced at the windows, judging the time. “Feylin wants to talk dragons this morning, too. Did you see that sheaf of parchments she came armed with? More facts and figures than anybody but she understands.”
“Have something to eat first,” Sioned suggested, gesturing to their untouched breakfast. “You know that when the two of you get to discussing dragons, you forget everything else—including your stomachs.”
“I thought you agreed with Tobin that I’m getting middle-aged and fat.”
She laughed and tossed a marsh apple at him. “Every man should have a middle age like yours, my lord, with a waist no wider than Maarken’s. Hush up and eat.”
Pol and Feylin were waiting for them in the upstairs reception chamber, her daughter Sionell with them. The Lady of Remagev smiled a greeting and said, “The others are out playing—including Walvis and Chay, who call it ‘inspecting the horses.’ “
“I would’ve thought you’d be out there, too,” Rohan said to the children, ruffling Sionell’s mop of russet curls.
Pol answered, “Lady Feylin says you’re going to talk dragons, Father. May I stay and listen?”
“Of course you may. What about you, Sionell?”
Sioned’s eleven-year-old namesake was a round and rosy copy of her mother, with the same dark red hair and the same triangular face. Her eyes alone had been inherited from Walvis, a startling blue fringed by thick black lashes over which equally dark brows arched. Her smile was his, too, a marvel of carefree good humor. “I like dragons, my lord. And I like this room—it’s my favorite at Stronghold, It’s the summer room.”
“Then we’ll name it that,” Sioned told her. “I’ll mention it to the steward this afternoon, that the Lady Sionell has named this the Summer Room in honor of the tapestry. And so it shall be called from now on.” She met Rohan’s amused gaze briefly, and winked. They both knew that Sionell had set her heart on Pol, confirmed by the look of triumph the child directed at the young prince. Pol pretended not to notice, and Sioned hid a grin.
They settled on the rug and Feylin spread out a formidable array of charts, maps, and lists. The lecture began with the yearly census of dragons.
“The most reliable reports place the total number at one hundred and sixty, of which thirteen are sires and fifty-five are females of mating age. The rest are three-year-olds who won’t be involved in the mating this year. The population has taken on a fairly constant cycle, as you can see from this chart, my lord. Attrition due to old age, disease, and accident brings their numbers down to about one hundred fifty, and then after the hatching the total increases to three hundred or so.”
“But we should have close to four hundred after hatching,” Rohan said. “With fifty-five females—“
“But there are only forty-three usable caves,” Feylin told him. “You see the problem.”
Pol frowned. “What happens to them if they can’t lay their eggs?”
“They die,” Sionell replied succinctly. Pol looked slightly miffed that she knew more about dragons than he did, but she ignored his expression and went on, “Eight females died last time. We lost not only that year’s hatchlings, but all the others they would have produced in their lifetimes.”
“But if the population remains constant, what’s the trouble?” he asked.
“What if there’s another Plague?”
“Let’s get back to the caves,” Feylin chided gently. “Unless we find enough to hold them all, the extra females will die. Pol’s correct that the population has stayed fairly constant within its cycle, but it can’t grow beyond three hundred because of the lack of proper caves. I won’t feel easy until there are at least five hundred dragons at the top of the cycle, preferably more.”
“Are there any caves we might lure them to, Feylin?” Sioned asked.
“It’s too cold up in the Veresch—the eggs wouldn’t bake enough to hatch. And further south than Rivenrock there aren’t any suitable caves at all.”
“Rivenrock,” Rohan echoed. “There are plenty of caves there, excellent ones. Do you have any suggestions for coaxing the dragons back there, Feylin?”
“I’m sorry, my lord.” She shook her head. “The bittersweet they feed from in mating years is thicker there than anywhere else. The caves are perfect, as you’ve said. They’ve hatched a thousand generations there, for all I know. But they won’t even fly over it anymore.”
“I don’t understand, Mama,” Sionell complained. “I know they died of Plague there, but the ones old enough to remember that are all dead now, aren’t they? How do the younger ones know to avoid Rivenrock?”
“I think they’re much smarter than we’ve ever imagined,” Sioned replied thoughtfully, remembering those brilliant colors touched for only an instant. “If they can communicate with each other beyond the usual ways of animals, then the older dragons may well have warned the younger to stay away from the place where so many died. Then again, perhaps the young ones were never even shown the place by their elders, so they don’t know it’s there.”
Rohan met her gaze with intense interest. He said nothing, but she knew his thoughts as if he’d spoken them. If she could communicate somehow with the dragons on sunlight, then it might be possible to lure them back to Rivenrock, where the availability of caves would ensure their increase in numbers.
Pol, sensitive to the glance his parents exchanged, asked, “Do you have an idea how to bring them back, Father?”
“Nothing I’d care to commit myself to right now,” he smiled. “Feylin, how many hatchlings are we likely to see this year?”
“About a hundred and fifty, if we’re lucky. And by the way, Sioned, you’re mistaken about dragons having to be shown their caves. Some collapsed up in Skybowl a few years ago, and the dragons went out looking for others nearby. So I’d say they know Rivenrock’s here. They just won’t go near it.”
“I wish the sires didn’t kill each other off,” Sionell said unhappily. “It’s awful, watching a dragon die.” “It’s the way the strongest survive,” Pol informed her.
“If there were enough caves for all the females, then the weakest of them would survive, too.”
“That’s true,” Rohan said. “But Lady Feylin has the right of it. First there has to be a large enough population base so the dragons aren’t in danger. When they build up their numbers to that point, then the rule of the strongest surviving to mate will hold sway without risk.”
“It’s like princes,” Pol said. “All trying to kill each other off, fighting over the best pieces of land. Until you showed them that you’re the strongest,” he added with pride, and Rohan frowned. “Because it’s the laws that make the greatest strength, isn’t it, Father? The power of an army is uncertain, but the law stays the law.” He sneaked a glance at Sionell to see how she was responding to this princely wisdom, and Sioned hid another smile as the little girl nodded solemnly.
Feylin noted the byplay as well, and didn’t bother hiding her grin as she met Sioned’s gaze. “Dragons are my specialty, not princely politics,” she announced, tidying up her parchments. “I’ll leave these for you to study, my lord. Sionell, aren’t we supposed to join your father and brother and that new pony you wanted to show Lord Chaynal?”
“Yes, Mama. Pol, come see my pony, please?”
For a moment Sioned thought he’d agree. But then he shook his head. “I have to stay here with my mother and father, and discuss what Lady Feylin has told us. Perhaps later.”
Sionell’s black brows rushed together as she sprang to her feet. “Perhaps later we’ll be out riding and you won’t get the chance!” She remembered to bow to Sioned and Rohan before running out the door.
The adults heroically kept mirth in check as Pol glared at the empty doorway. Feylin managed to restrain herself until after she had closed the door behind her, but Sioned thought she heard a gasp of uncontrollable giggles a moment later—and wished she could indulge in the same.
Pol muttered something under his breath, and Rohan turned a bland gaze on his son. “What was that you said?”
“Nothing. What are we going to do about the dragons, Father?”
“For starters, we’re all going up to Skybowl to watch them this year.”
“Everybody?”
“Why, yes,” Rohan replied, all innocence, and Sioned nearly lost her battle with laughter. “Walvis will stay here and take care of Stronghold while we’re gone, of course. But everyone else will come along.”
Sioned took pity on the boy. “Feylin will be with us, naturally, but I think Sionell and Jahnavi will want to stay here with their father. It’s a very long ride, even when one has a new pony.”
Pol nodded, trying not to show his relief and failing utterly. “It’s too bad they’ll have to miss seeing the dragons,” he said, able to be generous now that he knew his pest would not be joining them.
Rohan wore a thoughtful expression. “I think it’s about time I expanded your education, Pol. I’ve taught you to ride, how to win a knife-fight, and the basics of swordsmanship, and Lleyn has said he’s pleased with your progress in all three. But now I’m going to teach you something else that will come in very useful.” All at once he grinned. “I’m going to show you how to beat a woman at chess.”
“Brave words, my lord dragon prince,” Sioned scoffed. “Bring the board and set, Pol, and watch me trounce him for the twentieth time this year!”
“And it’s only twenty days into spring,” Pol said impishly, running to get the chessboard and pieces.
Rohan set the game up on the carpet, Pol sitting at his side. Sunlight burnished the two fair heads, shone on identical smiles. Even the gesture of brushing the hair off their necks was the same. Pol’s coloring was a little stronger than Rohan’s, his hair and lashes a shade or two darker, his eyes glinting green as well as blue. But there was nothing of lanthe in him, nothing to remind Sioned of the princess who had birthed him.
Opening gambits completed, she surveyed the board and confided to Pol, “He’ll try to trick me into a mistake now. Just watch.”
“Would I do that to you?” Rohan asked, eyes wide with injured innocence.
“Every chance you can get.”
“You’re using Grandmother Milar’s defense, aren’t you, Mother? Maarken taught it to Meath, and he taught it to me.”
“She loved chess and played very well,” Sioned replied. “Andrade was the only one who could win against her very often. And stop trying to distract me, hatch-ling,” she added, making a face at him. He laughed and she knew she had been forgiven the contretemps of his arrival.
“Mind you,” Rohan said, “she’s a terrible loser.”
“They way I’ve heard it, she hasn’t had much practice at losing,” Pol answered with a grin. “And it doesn’t look as if you’ll be teaching her how this time, Father!”
“Oh, so now it’s compliments to lull me into complacency!” Sioned reached over and tweaked Pol’s ear.
Rohan moved a piece on the board. “Remember, my boy, the main thing about playing chess with a woman is always let her win—even after you’ve married her.”
“Let me win—?” She launched a playful fist at his jaw. He caught her wrist, tugged, and succeeded in toppling her to one side of the chessboard. Sioned went for his ribs, knowing every vulnerable spot in his body. The chess pieces went flying and Pol yelled, “Forfeit!” as the three of them tumbled around on the carpet, laughing and tickling. Sioned’s hair came loose from its pins and Rohan grabbed the thick braid, pulling her down for a kiss. Then they both went after their son. Captured, Pol squirmed helplessly with laughter.
“Well, now,” said an amused voice from the doorway. “Is it a castle revolution, I wonder? Bets on the winner, Maarken?”
“Pol,” the young man said at once. “Chadric teaches dirty tricks in unarmed combat, Mother.”
The royal trio sorted themselves out and sat up, still laughing. Rohan grinned up at Maarken and Tobin. “Always bet on the younger man—especially when he’s your future prince!”
“It’s only good politics,” Maarken agreed, chuckling, and helped Sioned to her feet.
She thanked him and tried to make some order out of her hair. “Are you just going to sit there?” she inquired of her husband. “Pick yourself up and at least pretend to a little princely dignity.”
“Make it a good show,” Tobin advised. “I’ve come to announce the Fironese ambassador.”
Rohan groaned and shook his head. “She wasn’t due for another day, according to their Sunrunner.”
“Lady Eneida is right behind me, brother dear.”
Maarken and Pol searched for the scattered chess pieces while Tobin replaced the board and righted an overturned chair. Rohan and Sioned tidied each other up, then grabbed their son on his way by and performed the same service for him. They slid into seats, Maarken standing behind his mother’s chair as was proper for a young lord in the presence of his princes, just as a knock sounded on the door.
“Come,” Rohan said, raking his hand one last time through his hair.
The Fironese ambassador was a thin dark woman aged somewhere between forty and seventy. She was as cool and brittle as the crystal for which her land was famous, but there the resemblance ended; the airy grace of Fironese fantasies in glass was utterly lacking in her. Fragile as she seemed, there was something stolid about her, and though Rohan’s casual court saved her from being further weighted down by stiff formal robes, her woolen gown had been made for the colder climate of Firon and her brow was slightly damp as she made her bows before the High Prince, the High Princess, and the heir.
“It is generous of you to receive me in private, your grace,” she said to Rohan.
“Exceeded by your generosity in making the long journey from Firon in such haste,” he responded. “Please, my lady, sit and be comfortable.”
As Maarken placed a chair for her, she murmured her thanks and folded her narrow hands in her lap. “Our governing council has sent me to consult with your grace about the unhappy state of our princedom,” she began. “As you know Prince Ajit died without heirs this New Year Holiday.”
“We had news of his death on the sunlight, and were grieved,” Rohan said. He remembered very well the prince who, at Rohan’s first tumultuous Rialla, had openly doubted his ability to understand even the basics of government. He had never held it against Ajit; indeed, he had been grateful for the expressions of misgivings, for it had been a tribute to his acting skills. Borderline idiocy had been precisely the impression he’d wished to create, the better to cozen Roelstra into concessions. Everyone knew better by now, of course.
Lady Eneida continued, “The days since his grace’s death have not been easy. We have been in constant receipt of ... suggestions . . . from other princes.”
“I am aware of them. How does your council view them?”
She condescended to give him a frosty smile. “With suspicion, as you may well imagine, my lord.”
“Indeed,” Tobin murmured.
“Most of these suggestions concern bloodlines, both real and imaginary. And thus they concern your graces.” She included Sioned and Pol in her glance now.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Sioned commented. “I’m not sufficiently informed about princely genealogy, Lady Eneida.”
“That is not surprising, your grace, as the point is a rather obscure one. The High Prince’s grandmother was a daughter of our Prince Gavran, who also had two sisters—who married the ruling princes of Dorval and
Kierst.”
Tobin leaned a little forward in her chair. “Thus there are four possible heirs to Firon—the sons of Volog of Kierst, the sons of Davvi of Syr, the grandsons of Lleyn of Dorval, and my nephew, Prince Pol.”
The ambassador inclined her head in tribute to Tobin’s succinct summation. “The Desert claim is stronger, coming through the High Prince and also through High Princess Sioned’s connection with the Kierstian royal line.”
Rohan was frowning, irritated by his sister’s eagerness. “My lady, you realize that by making my son the heir to Firon, it might mean the disappearance of that land as an independent princedom.”
She answered with a shrug. “The prospect does not please us overmuch—with all due respect, your grace,” she directed at Pol, who nodded his understanding. “But it is infinitely to be preferred over being swallowed by Cunaxa.”
“I appreciate your position,” Rohan said, and Lady Eneida’s fragment of a smile told him she appreciated his geographical pun; Firon was right next to ever-hungry Cunaxa. “Such an event would not please us much either. Still, there is much to be said for putting, say, Prince Lleyn’s younger grandson forth as the heir. Firon would retain its independence.”
Tobin shifted slightly in her chair and slanted a look of disgust at her brother. Maarken, standing beside her, put an unobtrusive hand on her shoulder. He understood his mother’s acquisitive instincts as fully as Rohan did.
“Dorval is far away,” Lady Eneida said bluntly. “Ten days’ sail in good weather, should we require assistance against the Cunaxans. But we also share a border with Princemarch.”
“A difficult one,” Sioned pointed out. “Solid mountains with only one decent pass through them.”
“There is also the proximity of the Desert to Cunaxa,” Lady Eneida said expressionlessly, her eyes sharp as splinters of dark glass.
Rohan let the ensuing silence draw out, knowing what she implied. A treaty establishing Lleyn’s grandson Laric in Firon would intimidate the Cunaxans much less than if Rohan actually owned the place. An attack on Firon would become a direct threat to him, unfiltered through any agreement of defense with an independent princedom. Kierst was closer to Firon, but only the Desert could attack across the shared border with Cunaxa in response to a march on Firon. Prince Miyon would never be so foolish as to invade in the west when he could be certain of a counterattack from the south that would necessarily split his forces and their effectiveness in half.
Lady Eneida finally broke the quiet by saying. “The stronger claim comes from the Desert. Prince Pol is a full generation closer to Firon through you, my lord. Combine this with her grace’s Kierstian blood. . . .”She finished with a shrug that indicated the inevitability of Firon’s end as an independent princedom.
“Your council is agreed or you would not be here, I take it,” Tobin said.
“Yes, your grace—agreed reluctantly. Again, no insult implied. It is not that we worry about the suitability of our choice.”
“Only that you regret that it had to be made at all,” Rohan supplied. “I, too, regret the necessity, my lady.”
“May I consider then that the suggestion of the council is acceptable to the High Prince?”
“Our answer cannot be forthcoming until the Rialla, when we have consulted with the other princes as law demands.”
Tobin drew in a swift breath and Maarken’s fingers tightened on her shoulder in silent warning. Lady Enei-da’s backbone became a shaft of ice.
“Please believe me,” Rohan said, “when I tell you that all will be done to ensure the safety and integrity of Fironese lands. But the law is the law and must be observed. I can put forth no claim and I certainly cannot agree to anything until all the facts have been presented at Waes.”
“My lord, perhaps I have understated the danger from Cunaxa. It will be a long spring and summer before the Rialla. “
“Nevertheless I will abide by laws I myself wrote,” he said quietly. “Your faradhi at Balarat is only a ray of light away from Princess Sioned. Should you require assistance, it will be forthcoming—according to the law.”
And with that she had to be content. She took her leave with frigid dignity and closed the door behind her with a sound like cracking ice.
Sioned spoke before Tobin could let loose her outrage. “Maarken, will you go find your father, please?”
A flicker of disappointment went over his face at being denied the witnessing of one of his mother’s famous tempers, but he bowed and obeyed. Rohan nodded his gratitude to his wife and turned to Pol.
“You’ve had the benefit of lectures from Lleyn and Chadric. What do you think about this?”
The boy recovered quickly from his surprise at being consulted. “We have to take Firon. We supply their glass ingots, and I can’t believe the Cunaxans would let that trade continue even if it cost them much of their revenues. Especially not with the Merida at their court speak- ing against us. And they’re right across the border from Firon, with two good mountain passes to use.”
“Three,” Tobin snapped, black eyes blazing. “Rohan, what ails you? They’re handing you a princedom wrapped in silk ribbons! And you’re going to wait until the end of summer to take it?” “Yes. Can you tell me why, Pol?” “Because it’s the law, just as you said.” The boy hesitated, then shrugged. “Besides, the princes can’t do anything other than agree, can they? Our blood claim is the best, and you’re the High Prince, after all.”
“Then why doesn’t he act like it?” Tobin demanded. “It’s very pretty and noble of you to observe the forms, Rohan, but in the meantime the Cunaxans might cross the border and then we’d have to fight for what the Fironese want to give us without a single sword unsheathed!”
Rohan paid no attention to her, instead gazing thoughtfully at his son. “Because I’m the High Prince,” he echoed. “Does that make my wishes law?” “No, but—“
He was interrupted by the entrance of Chay and Maarken. Tobin sprang to her feet and ordered her husband to talk some sense into her brother. Chay’s brows arched at her vehemence, but he said nothing until he had turned Lady Eneida’s chair, sat with both arms folded across its back, and spraddled his long, booted legs.
“I’m told the Fironese want to give you a present,” he remarked mildly. Then he grinned, a wicked gleam in his gray eyes. “What a perfect summer this is for military maneuvers up around Tuath Castle. And how fortunate that it’s only fifty measures from the Cunaxan border.”
Tobin’s breath hissed through her teeth and she glared at her lord. Pol’s eyes went wide with astonishment; Sioned contemplated her hands to hide her amusement. But Rohan was openly grinning at his sister.
“You should know better than to doubt my sanity, Tobin,” he admonished. “Miyon and his council will be so nervous watching us across the border that they won’t have time or nerve to think about Firon.” “So you say,” she retorted. “But why not agree to the
Fironese proposal now? It would save a lot of time. Pol’s right—they can’t do otherwise than agree with the High
Prince.”
“And if / don’t conform to the law, who else will?” he countered. “Do you understand, Pol?”
The boy looked at Maarken, who smiled encouragement, and then said, “It’s kind of like being a Sunrun-ner, isn’t it? You’re the High Prince and you have a greater responsibility to the law than anyone else, even when the law is awkward. And being a faradhi is the same. More duties and obligations come with more power, don’t they?”
“Indeed they do.” He could barely keep the glow of his pride from outshining the sunlight, and reminded himself to thank Lleyn and Chadric and Audrite. “Tobin, you’ve the best head for maps. Would you work on a proposal whereby Firon is divided between Princemarch and Fessenden?”
‘ ‘Fessenden!”
Pol’s jaw dropped; Sioned winked at him. Chay rested his forehead to his folded arms and shook with silent laughter. After a moment he raised his head and murmured, “Tobin, Tobin, haven’t you learned yet not to outguess him?”
Her shock had given way to disgust. “Oh, so we don’t want to appear the greedy prince, do we? Just so long as all the best crystallers come under Princemarch’s jurisdiction!”
“It will leave Fessenden with a nice chunk of land and a nice degree of gratitude for our generous expansion of their territory. Maarken, perhaps you can contact Eolie at Graypearl and ask if Lleyn knows of any strong ties or stronger aversions between people along the borderlands. I want to make this as easy and painless for everyone as possible.”
Maarken grinned his appreciation of the plan. “It will be a pleasure, my lord. Lleyn is a font of information on everybody’s holdings after the border arguments three Ri-all’im ago. He knows who’s been fighting over what down to the last blade of grass—even though it bores him silly.”
“I’m sure you’ll all find this little bit of geographical rearrangement interesting,” Rohan said. “Be sure to mention to him that there will be compensation for removing his grandsons from the consideration of other princes for the Fironese throne—if he’s so inclined.”
“I think he will be. The elder son, Ludhil, swears he’ll never set foot off Dorval except to attend the Rialla, so I doubt very much he’d want Firon. And Laric is more scholar than prince.”
Rohan thought for a moment. “I’ll have a little talk with Davvi at Waes about Tilal. Now, he’d make an excellent prince.”
“It’s what we trained him to be,” Sioned agreed. “But what about Volog’s younger boy? His claim is just as good.”
“I’ll sit down with him, too. The Goddess must be smiling on me, that I can speak to them as kinsmen as well as princes.”
Tobin gave a delicate snort. “Oh, yes, keep it all in the family, shall we? You remember, of course, that you arranged it so Volog’s grandson will rule both Kierst and Isel one day. Are you going to add a third princedom to his list?”
“I would hardly say I arranged it, Tobin! Could I have foreseen that Saumer’s only son would die without an heir?”
“No, but things have a way of working out to your advantage,” she retorted. “Very well, I’ll rearrange your map for you. But I still say you should take it all, and right now.”
“You’re just angry that you didn’t think of the Fessenden angle first,” Chay said. “Rohan, I assume you want Walvis to lead the maneuvers at Tuath?”
“Unless Maarken would like to.” He looked a question at the young man, who lost his smile. “If you don’t—“
“I will if you ask, my lord.”
“But I’m sure Andrade will want to see him at the Rialla, “ Sioned insisted. “Send Walvis. They know him well in the north after what he did at Tiglath. I’m positive Maarken could impress the Cunaxans and our own people, but the idea is to avoid battle, not to demonstrate how able Maarken is by provoking one.”
It was all perfectly logical—but Rohan knew that her stated reasons for wanting Maarken in Waes and Walvis at Tuath were different from her real reasons. The relief in Maarken’s eyes confirmed that the Rialla was his wish as well. Rohan eyed his wife suspiciously, then nodded agreement. He’d get the truth out of her later.
Pol gave a dismal sigh. “I guess that means—“
“Chay,” Sioned interrupted smoothly, “why don’t you and Maarken talk to Walvis this afternoon?”
Tobin was still nursing her irritation with her brother, but Chay had picked up on the undercurrents. He said nothing to the point, however, merely nodded and ushered his wife and son from the room—but not before giving Sioned a long, laughing glance that she returned with perfect composure. Rohan saw him grin and shake his head.
When the three of them were alone, Sioned turned a sly look on Pol. “Yes, it does mean that Sionell and Jahnavi will be coming with us to Skybowl. You’ll live.”
Rohan chuckled as the boy’s cheeks reddened. “I give it another five winters or so, Pol, and then you won’t have to worry about her. There’ll be plenty of young men more than willing to take her attention away from you.
Pol stared, utterly amazed that Sionell might possibly attract young men to her plump, pestilential little person, or that he might care if she did. Rohan, knowing he really shouldn’t laugh, laughed anyway.
“Well, anyway,” Pol said, “it’s kind of appropriate that my claim to Firon comes from both of you, just like my Sunrunner gifts. I’m glad it’s that way—reinforced. I don’t think I’d feel quite right about it otherwise.”
Sioned nodded easily, but her eyes had gone blank. Rohan knew why. There was no claim to Firon through her, nor were the talents of her giving. She was much too sensitive. “Does the prospect worry you, son?”
“No—not much, anyway,” he amended honestly. “It’s just that now I’ll have to worry about yet another princedom.” He gave a whimsical smile. “Just make sure this is the last I’ll have to add to the list, Father. I don’t think there’s room enough in my head to keep any more princedoms straight!”
“As High Prince you’ll have to worry about all of them.”
“Then I’m going to keep everybody very busy answering about a million questions!”
“We’ll do our best to answer. And that reminds me, how is Chadric these days? I haven’t really had time to talk to you abut your training and your life at Graypearl.”
“But shouldn’t we start planning things?”
Rohan laughed. “Consider it the first lesson in being High Prince. I’ve sent everyone off to do work they know very well how to do without me. Chay and Maarken and Walvis will present me with excellent plans for Tuath, Tobin will bury herself in books and maps for the next ten or twelve days, and when they’re ready, my experts will tell me what they’ve come up with. But until then my time is my own. Never do yourself what someone else can do for you better and faster, Pol. Now, tell me what you think of Chadric. He was a squire here, you know—he arrived the year I was born and left when I was only six, so I don’t really remember him all that well.”
Pol launched into a description of Chadric’s many virtues, and during his recital Sioned recovered her poise— as Rohan had intended. They went on talking for a time, and then he suggested that it might be polite for Pol to go compliment Sionell on her new pony. Pol grimaced, then sighed.
“I guess she can’t help it,” he observed philosophically. “She’s only a little girl, after all.”
Neither Rohan nor Sioned missed the authority lent by a whole three years’ advantage in age, but neither gave in to further amusement. Pol left them, and Rohan took his wife’s hand in his own.
“It hurts me to see you upset, love.”
“I just wasn’t expecting him to say what he did, that’s all.” She shrugged. “I hate to have him grow up believing a lie—I know, I know, it’s a necessary lie until he’s old enough to understand what really happened, and why we never told him. But it’s lucky that the Fironese claim doesn’t come only through me. In honor, we would’ve had to refuse.”
“And think up a very good reason why. But not much will change in Firon, you know. Pimantal of Fessenden isn’t likely to close his fist tight around his new possessions—especially after I’ve had a little talk with him.”
“The same tactic you use with Princemarch. It’s been fourteen winters since Pandsala became regent, and the people have learned where their advantage lies. By the time Pol is old enough to rule there, they’ll find our methods completely natural.”
“I wonder if the other princes will.” He rose and went to the windows, looking down at the courtyard. “Firon is too good an opportunity to pass up—and the fact that they came to me instead of the other way around soothes my conscience a bit. But I’ll have to be careful, especially with this Roelstra’s son business to deal with, now of all times.” He snorted with sudden laughter. “Can you believe it—old Ajit had six wives and was thinking of taking a seventh, and he still couldn’t get sons any more than Roelstra could!”
“Sometimes it depends on the woman, you know,” she murmured, and when he turned with a stricken look on his face, smiled at him. “Oh, stop it. I’m not sensitive about that anymore, Rohan. I did give you a son, after all. And besides, Ajit did have an heir who died many years ago.”
“That’s right, I’d forgotten.” He heard shouts and laughter outside in the courtyard, and beckoned Sioned over to the windows. “Come look at this!”
She joined him and together they watched as Walvis, playing dragon for his son and daughter, fluttered an immense green cloak like wings as they tried to ride him down on their ponies. Shrieking with laughter, the children were barely able to stay in their saddles. The outraged ponies were forced to trot up and down, up and down, while wooden swords were waved at the dragon. Pol stood nearby, his face eloquent: he longed to join in the fun, but his sense of dignity as Rohan’s heir and Lleyn’s squire forbade it. Sionell solved his problem for him by kicking her pony over to where he stood and tossing him her sword. Pol swept her a low bow, then sallied forth to oblige her by slaying the dragon.
“Oh, she’s marvelous!” Rohan laughed. “Just what he needs!”
“Well, we’ll have wait until he’s older to see if he inherited his father’s taste for redheads,” she teased.
“It’d be nice if it happened. But he can choose his wife from scores of girls.”
“They way you did? I can still see you that year in Waes, hip-deep in princesses!”
“And drowning in one pair of green eyes,” he responded gallantly, kissing her.
“Very romantic,” she approved. “Teach Pol some of that, and they won’t let him alone.”
“I don’t recall that it was a very agreeable experience, personally. And speaking of Waes, what was all that about Maarken?”
“I’m not telling. You can torture me, starve me, pull out my fingernails, throw me in the dungeon, or even tickle me—and I won’t say a word.”
“I don’t have a dungeon. And I’m all tickled out for today, thanks. Torture is messy, my own faithful guard would use me for target practice if I tried to starve you, and as for fingernails. . . .” He picked up one of her hands and nibbled her fingertips. “It’s an idea,” he admitted. “At least I wouldn’t get scratched in bed. You can be so emphatic, Sioned.”
Sionell was congratulating Pol on his conquest and Walvis had disappeared into the keep, presumably to consult with Chay and Maarken. Rohan saw Jahnavi, eight years old and already an accomplished horseman, execute a series of showy maneuvers around the horse trough. But his main attention was focused on Pol, who shrugged away Sionell’s attentions and went off to the gardens. The little girl stamped her foot and ran after him.
“You know,” Rohan mused, “I think I’d like to build him a castle.”
“You already have several.”
“Well, not a castle, really, but a palace. Something along the lines of what Lleyn has at Graypearl. Not a keep ready for war, but a peaceful place, with lots of gardens and fountains and all those things.”
“And where would you site this marvel?”
“Halfway between Stronghold and Castle Crag. In fact, I’m going to inspect a few places on the progress.
Think of it, Sioned—a new palace for a new prince, uniting two lands. I’d like to start building next spring, so it’ll be ready by the time Pol takes a wife.”
“I’ll bet it’s Sionell. And as stakes—“
“Extortionist. What do you want if you win?” He smiled at her.
“Feruche.”
The shock went through his whole body and he drew back from her. “No.”
“The pass through the Veresch is important, Rohan. Feruche always guarded it—but now there’s nothing, not even a garrison. Feruche should be rebuilt.”
“I don’t want to have anything to do with that place ever again,” he rasped, looking out the windows with blind eyes. Feruche—the beautiful rose-pink castle rising from the cliffs; the deadly woman who had ruled it; the night he had raped her and she had conceived his son.
“You promised a long time ago to give me Feruche,” Sioned reminded him. “There are dragons near it who need watching and protecting. I want Feruche, Rohan.”
“No. Never.”
“It’s the only way either of us will ever forget what happened to us there. I destroyed it with Sunrunner’s Fire—for me, it lies in ashes. But for you it still stands, because you never went back to see it razed to the ground. I want it rebuilt, Rohan, so that it’s not lanthe’s anymore but ours. “
“No!” he shouted, turning on his heel for the door. “I won’t rebuild it, I won’t set foot within ten measures of it! And I won’t have you speak of it again!”
“When we tell Pol the truth, shall we also present him with the charred ruin where he was conceived and born— and where his mother died? Or will we make a new place that has nothing in it of the old, nothing to bear witness to what happened there?”
He stopped, his hand on the doorlatch. “If you love me, you will never say the name of that place in my hearing as long as we live.”
“It’s because I love you that I have to say it. I want Feruche, Rohan. And if you won’t rebuild it, then / will. “