Castle Crag had not seen such splendor in more than forty-five years, not since Lallante had arrived to become Roelstra’s bride. Banners of all the important athr’im of Princemarch snapped in a breeze surging up from the gorge, and the golden dragon on blue was raised to signify that the High Prince himself would soon be in residence. An eager crowd lined the road for half a measure, four people deep. Flowers were strewn, people cheered themselves hoarse, and trumpets blared from the battlements as Rohan and Pol led the way into the courtyard.
Pol whispered to his father: “I feel like I’m about to be the main course at a banquet.”
Rohan laughed softly. “They’re hungry for a sight of you, hatchling, not a bite of you!”
Rohan had never before visited Princemarch and had resisted all suggestions that he do so. Although nominally it belonged to him, he had made it clear that Pand-sala was Pol’s regent, not his, and that his son should be considered Princemarch’s ruler, not himself. Once the boy was knighted and had learned faradhi skills, he would take over here and rule it as an independent princedom until, at Rohan’s death, the Desert would also become his. Rohan hoped that years of thinking of Pol as their prince would make the transition smoother when it came time for Pol to govern.
This distinction was pointed up by Pandsala’s welcome. She came down the stairway, dressed in blue and violet, and her first bow was to Pol. He followed his father’s instructions, taking her hands, raising her from her knees, and bowing over her left hand where she wore the topaz and amethyst of her regency—along with Sun-runner’s rings. Only then did she turn to Rohan and bend her knees. Thus it was that in full view of the highborns and other dignitaries assembled in the courtyard, Pol’s place was openly acknowledged as being above Rohan’s. It was prettily done, and Rohan appreciated it.
Pol had never met Pandsala before, and found her something of a surprise. She did not look her forty-four winters, but was rather more as he recalled Lady An-drade: nearly ageless, anywhere from thirty to sixty. Her face had a sharp-boned, aristocratic handsomeness that conveyed great dignity but little warmth, even when she smiled. In addition to the ring Rohan had given her as token of her charge, she wore five Sunrunner’s rings. Her eyes were cool brown, and silver waved from her temples through braids wound atop her head. Her welcome was delivered in a quiet, respectful voice, and everything was done with the ceremony due their rank—and she made Pol very uneasy. Certainly she was pleasant enough. He did not understand his reaction to her; perhaps it was the way she gazed at him, then looked away whenever he tried to meet her glance directly.
“I have messages for your grace from High Princess Sioned,” she told him while escorting him, Rohan, and Maarken upstairs to their chambers.
“You do?” Pol asked eagerly, only realizing at that moment how much he missed his mother. Then, because he didn’t want to show it, he added, “Have the dragons hatched yet?”
“Not for another ten days or so,” she replied, smiling a little. “Probably at about the time we leave for Waes.”
“I’m sorry we’ll be taking the long way this year, my lady,” Maarken apologized with a smile both rueful and charming. “Neither Pol nor I have your enviable ability to cross water without disgracing ourselves.”
“It’s of no consequence, Lord Maarken. I never much liked the sail down the Faolain anyway.” She turned to Rohan. “The High Princess is quite well, my lord, and begs that you will be on time to the Rialla. She has much information to share with you about the dragons.”
“She and Lady Feylin have discussed nothing else all summer,” he said, smiling. “That was a beautiful tapestry on the landing, Pandsala. Cunaxan?”
“Gribain, my lord, and new. I’ve been encouraging trade with them, as you suggested some years ago. They’ve improved since their first efforts.”
“Mmm. I think we saw a few at Rezeld Manor— clumsy, threadbare things that wouldn’t keep out a sneeze, let alone the winter winds they must get up in the mountains.” He glanced at Pol, his expression perfectly innocent, and the boy had a difficult time controlling his own. “I was impressed with Lord Morlen, however, and his inventory of livestock. You’ll have to fill me in about his quarry, too, while we’re here.”
“I’m pleased he’s done better in the last few years, my lord. He’s forever crying poverty.” She gestured to a servant who opened a large door of carved pine inlaid with shining black stone. “Lord Maarken, this is your suite. I hope it will be satisfactory.”
Maarken was self-possessed enough not to gape at the luxuries within. He merely nodded. “Thank you, my lady. I’m sure it’s entirely adequate to my needs. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll wash off the dirt of the road and attend you later.”
Pol did not have sufficient control of his eyes and jaw not to react when Pandsala herself opened the door of the suite he would share with his father. The first room was a gigantic reception chamber, bearing signs of recent redecoration, though not in the manner of Rezeld: here there were new hangings, fresh paint, cushions that had never been sat on, and the tart scent of citrus polish. Blue, violet, and gold were the dominant colors, sumptuous and slightly overwhelming.
The bedchambers were done in similar fashion. Smiling, Rohan watched Pol’s face, and when Pandsala had left them he said, “Well? What do you think?”
“It’s—it’s—“
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” He sank into a chair, relishing its comfort after so many days in the saddle.
“Father—she makes me a little nervous.”
“If she behaved a little stiffly, it’s because she’s anxious for everything to be perfect. Actually, you probably make her nervous, too.”
“Me?”
“Mm-hmm. I may have hired her on, but her real master is you—and she knows it.”
“But I don’t have any say in what goes on here!”
“Not yet. “
Pol digested this in silence, then jumped on the bed, landing with a bounce and a grin. “At least I have my own room and don’t have to listen to you snore!”
“I do not snore, you insolent—“
“Do so.”
“Do not!” Rohan tugged a pillow from behind his back and threw it. Pol responded with an overstuffed bedcushion. Rohan caught it and tossed it back at him. “Not again, or we’ll have feathers all over!”
“Dignity, dignity,” Pol said mournfully, shaking his head. “I have to behave myself, don’t I?” He fell onto his stomach, arms wrapped around the pillow. “Well, when I do come to live here, this stuff is going to go. I don’t care if princes have to live in state—I’d be afraid to take a bath in case I got the tub dirty! Did you see the size of that thing? You and Mother don’t live this way. Why did Pandsala do all this?”
“The whole place is the same, you know. And think for a moment about why she’d want to make this the most splendid suite in all Castle Crag. Don’t mistake her, Pol. She’s not showing off what she can do with money. Everything she does is for us. When she committed to us against her own father, she risked everything—including her life. There were plenty of people, Tobin and Andrade included, who told me I was out of my mind to make her regent here. She knows that, too.” He sighed quietly. “Her commitment is all she has. With her royal blood, she could never have been a traditional kind of Sunrun-ner, attached to a court somewhere. Can you honestly see a daughter of High Prince Roelstra as a court fara-dhi? And since Andrade never liked her much, returning to Goddess Keep was out of the question.”
“Mother wouldn’t have her at Stronghold, either,” Pol observed.
“Uneasiness around Pandsala isn’t an uncommon reaction,” he mused. “I can’t say that I’m all that fond of her, but I appreciate her and especially the work she’s done for us.” He paused a moment. “It gave her a life, Pol. She was trained for nothing in her youth except to be a princess, and then after her father’s death—“ He shrugged.
“I heard Mother say once that ruling here is her revenge on her father.”
“Perhaps. But she also genuinely cares about you and about Princemarch. We’ve seen what the results have been.”
“Except that she never figured out about Lord Mor-len!” Pol grinned, then sobered. “But I can’t help feeling funny around her.”
“As I said, she probably feels funny around you, too. Stop thinking so much!” he chided affectionately. “If I worried as much as you do, I’d be bald as a dragon’s egg. We’re supposed to be having a good time, you know.”
“I was—until we had to start getting dressed for dinner. Any chance that there won’t be a banquet tonight?”
“You can dream,” his father replied.
But the banquet was canceled only a short time before it was due to begin. Rohan was still draped in a bath towel when Maarken came to tell him the information Pandsala had just received on the last of the evening sunlight.
“Inoat of Ossetia and his son Jos went sailing today on Lake Kadar. They were due back well before sunset. But their boat washed up onshore, empty. Rohan—the bodies were found a little while ago. They’re both dead.”
He sat down on the ornate bed. “Another death—two deaths. Sweet Goddess. . . . Jos is a few winters younger than Pol.” He picked at the fringed hangings. “Chale must be devastated. He adored them both.”
Maarken nodded. “His only son and only grandson. I met Inoat once or twice—he visited at Goddess Keep while I was there. I liked him, Rohan. He would’ve made a fine prince.” He paused. “I’ve told Pandsala to cancel everything at once. I hope that wasn’t presumptuous.”
“No, not at all. Thank you for thinking of it. We’ll observe the ritual for them tonight. ...” He trailed off and raked a hand back through his wet hair. “You know what all this means, don’t you? It may sound cold to be thinking politics right now, but—“
“You’re High Prince. You have to think politics.”
He smiled slightly. “You’re very like your father—good for my conscience in all ways. He’s soothing when I need it, and kicks me when it’s necessary. Promise you’ll always do the same for Pol.”
Maarken returned the smile. “I’m his the same way my father is yours.”
“And Ossetia will be Princess Gemma’s. Chale has no other heir.”
“Gemma? His cousin?”
“Niece. Her mother was Chale’s sister.”
Rohan saw Maarken look down at the first of his Sun-runner’s rings—a garnet that had belonged to Gemma’s older brother Jastri, Prince of Syr, who had died fighting on Roelstra’s side against the Desert.
“She’s suddenly become a very important young lady,” Maarken observed.
“And Waes will be overflowing with men trying to catch her eye.”
Maarken gave a start. “Not me!” he exclaimed.
“Have you someone else in mind?”
Blanching slightly, he hesitated and then shook his head. Rohan only smiled. Maarken returned to the main subject, a tactical maneuver not lost on his uncle. “Where’s Gemma now?”
“At High Kirat with Sioned’s brother Davvi. They’re all cousins through the Syrene royal house. Gemma’s still a Princess of Syr, of course, and technically Davvi’s ward.”
“She’ll need the High Prince’s consent to marry.”
“Yes. And what if she chooses someone I can’t stomach as the next Prince of Ossetia? Or even worse, what if the man she picks is unpalatable to Chale? He and I don’t agree on much.”
“If you interfere too much, you’ll be accused of trying to control Ossetia through Gemma.” Maarken made an annoyed gesture. “And there’s Firon! This on top of that isn’t going to make you very popular.”
“Watch the greedy High Prince gobble up land and power,” Rohan agreed bitterly. “We don’t need to explore this fully right now, Maarken. Is Pandsala competent at Moonrunning?”
“I’m not sure. She has five rings, and that makes her an apprentice—but I’m not sure how much training she had before she left Goddess Keep. I’ll ask.”
“Good. If she’s capable, then you two can divide up faradhi duties for me tonight. I need to get word to Davvi to put a guard on Gemma, if he hasn’t already done so. Pandsala can send our condolences to Chale, Regent to Prince. They’ll both appreciate that. You’ll have to contact Andrade. I don’t think she and Pandsala have exchanged a word in fifteen years. And Sioned will have to know all of it after you’ve finished with the rest.” Rising from the bed, he looked at the clothes laid out for him. “Have Pandsala arrange with her steward for gray mourning. Where is the ritual held here?”
“For the dead of other princedoms, the oratory.”
“Ah. I’d hoped to see it under more pleasant circumstances. I’m told it’s a marvel. Have I forgotten anything, Maarken?”
“Not that I can think of. Do you want me to send Pol in here to you?”
“Yes—do that. Thank you. Then go find Pandsala for me, and we’ll get started.” Brushing the hair from his eyes again, he said, “And remind me to tell Pol that under no circumstances is he to so much as look at Gemma unless he absolutely has to. The only thing I lack is a rumor that their marriage will give us Ossetia. Besides, she’s—what, ten winters older than he?”
“Boys grow up fast at nearly fifteen,” Maarken commented.
Rohan made a sour face. “I don’t think he realizes yet that girls exist.”
“Boys grow up fast at nearly fifteen,” Maarken repeated, and grinned.
* * *
The candles guttered in neat rows, the warm brilliance of their first burning faded to uncertain glimmers. Rohan stood before them, acutely aware of the darkness behind him. It was long past midnight, the ritual over. He had spoken to the assembled highborns and dignitaries here in the oratory, brief words about the loss suffered in the deaths of Inoat and Jos, fulfilling his obligation as High Prince. The candles had been placed along the back wall, and everyone had gone down to the dinner waiting for them. Rohan told himself he ought to be there, too, even if this was no longer an official ceremonial banquet, for he was hungry and Pol would want him near while everyone took his measure. But Pol had Maarken and Pandsala to see him through any rough patches, and Rohan wasn’t ready to join them just yet.
The oratory was an exquisite thing, a half-dome of faceted Fironese crystal projecting out from the cliffside castle, furnished with white chairs covered by white velvet. By sun, moons, or stars, it would glow. But the sky had turned black shortly after moonrise, clouds the color of smoke obscuring all light. Only the candles shone, and they burned low.
Outside the Ossetian seat of Athmyr, the bodies of father and son would be ablaze now on a shared pyre. Old Prince Chale and his faradhi would wait and watch through the night until flesh became ash, and then the Sunrunner would call up a gentle breath of Air to carry the ashes over land that had given the two princes birth, land that they would never rule. Candles would burn in honor of that funeral fire here in this oratory and at similar places in each princedom: the small glass-domed chamber at Davvi’s High Kirat, the central hall of Volog’s court at New Raetia, the faradhi calendar room at Gray-pearl that Pol had described in awed detail. Rohan wondered where Sioned would hold the ritual at Skybowl; Stronghold had a chamber for the purpose, but Skybowl had no such facility. He imagined she would choose a place outdoors by the lake, perhaps even float candles out across the dark water.
The same had been done at Skybowl for his father—of whom Roelstra had spoken here in this very chamber on the night Zehava’s body had burned to ashes in the Desert. Rohan doubted that Roelstra’s elegy had been heartfelt.
Turning from the candles, Rohan glanced up at the crystal ceiling where flickering lights reflected in the etched panes. Where the clear dome met the stone floor thirty paces from him was a table bearing silver and gold plate and two cups of beaten gold. The chunks of uncut amethyst set into the goblets were said to have fallen from the sky with the first sunset. Only one marriage had ever been celebrated with them, that of Roelstra to his only wife, Lallante. Rohan supposed that sooner or later Pol would stand here to wed some suitable girl. The ruler of Princemarch could hardly avoid being married in his own oratory. Yet despite its beauty, Rohan could not banish the chill he sensed within this room. Roelstra had ruled here too long.
He paced silently down the white carpet to the center of the chamber, directly below the place where crystal met smoothed rock high overhead. The panes were set in delicate stone traceries that must have taken years to carve. He admired the workmanship but wondered why he could sense none of the crafters’ joy in creating such beauty. His mother’s gardens at Stronghold—her life’s work and her pride—had a different feel altogether. She and a small army of workers had transformed the barren wards of the castle into a miracle of grace and growing things: every flowerbed, tree, bench, and curve of the little stream bespoke pleasure in the making. His own refurbishing of the Great Hall had something of the same feel to it—artisans delighting in their skills that produced such marvels. This oratory, despite its magnificence, was a cold and lifeless place that not even the gentle candlelight could warm.
He told himself he would feel differently about it once he had viewed it in full sunshine. He would be able to see across the vast canyon to the opposite cliffs, and down to the rush of the Faolain far below. The oratory would not then feel like a crystal bubble clinging in darkness to the side of a mountain, isolated and chill and redolent of his enemy.
Rohan turned quickly as the doors swung open. Pand-sala stood there, candlelight limning her body and turning her gray mourning gown and veil to dark liquid silver.
“Everyone is asking for you, my lord.”
“I’ll be down in a moment. How fares my son?”
She smiled, dark eyes glinting with pride. “Charming everyone, of course, just as I expected.”
“Don’t let his pretty manners fool you. He can be a terror when he pleases, and stubborn enough for six.”
“Would he be a boy if he weren’t? My chamberlain’s four sons have been my pages, one after the other, and each more mischievous than the last.” She moved into the room and the doors swung shut behind her. ‘ ‘Because he is a boy with those qualities, though, I thought I should warn you. He’s heard about the old custom of proving one’s strength and courage by scaling the cliffs opposite the castle. I’m afraid he’s taken it into his head to try.”
“I’ve heard about it. The idea is to slide back down on the ropes—a little like flying. I can see how that would appeal to him.”
“You’ll forbid it, naturally.”
Rohan chuckled. “Let me tell you something about my hatchling, Pandsala. Forbidding him to do something is tantamount to issuing an open invitation for him to work his way around to doing it anyhow.” “But it’s too dangerous!” “Probably.” “And he’s so young!”
“He’s older than Maarken was when he went to war. Pandsala, if I forbid it, he’ll only go off and do it on his own I could lock him in his rooms and he’d still find a way of getting out and doing just as he pleases. With Pol, you have to use sweet reason and a guile even greater than his own—and sometimes not even that works.”
“But, my lord—“ she began.
“Let’s go downstairs. I’ll show you something about our stubborn prince.”
Rohan had only just supplied himself with a plate of food and a winecup when his offspring came through the crowd, Maarken right behind him. “Watch,” Rohan whispered to Pandsala, who looked on worriedly as Pol sought permission to test his strength and courage against the cliffs.
“And I was thinking, Father, that it would be good for us politically, too,” he finished with admirable if transparent shrewdness.
“As well as terrific fun,” Rohan added.
Pol nodded enthusiastically. “I’ve done some climbing around Stronghold and Skybowl, and Prince Chadric took all the squires to some rocks near Graypearl for lessons. It was right over the ocean, too, so I know all about how to go climbing over water without getting nervous. May I, Father? Please?”
Rohan pretended to consider, though his decision had already been made—prompted partly by Pandsala’s automatic assumption that he would forbid this. “What arrangements would you make for this feat?”
“Well, I know it’s a little dangerous. But Maarken could come with me if he wants to, and Maeta loves to go climbing—and if we had a group of people who’ve done it before, then they could take the lead and show us how. It won’t be that much of a risk, Father. And if I’m going to be prince here, I really ought to show them what I’m made of.”
Rohan’s lips twitched in a smile. “Maarken, how do you feel about this?”
The young man shrugged. “If he’s determined to do this crazy thing, then I’ll go with him.”
“Hmm. I’ll think it over.”
A flicker of disappointment showed in Pol’s face, but then he decided to put the best possible interpretation on the words. “Thank you, Father!”
A man approached, was introduced as Lord Cladon of River Ussh, and talk turned to other things. When Rohan and Pandsala were comparatively private once more, he turned to her and smiled.”Well?”
“I think I understand, my lord. He thought up ways to convince you it would be safe in order to win your permission. Had you dictated those terms, however, he would have been resentful—and defied you.”
“Exactly. A few days from now he’ll have researched the problem and presented me with further precautions for his safety—and he’ll know a great deal more about climbing than he does at present.”
“But you’d already made up your mind.”
“He’s right, you know—it would be an excellent thing if he proved himself at so young an age.” He watched as shock widened her eyes, correctly interpreted her expression, and answered it with, “Don’t think I’m not afraid for him, Pandsala. But I can’t wrap him in silk. I can guide his steps, but I won’t prevent him from getting a few bruises. It’s the only way he’ll ever become a man on his own, a prince worthy of the lands he’ll inherit.”
“Forgive me, my lord, but—“ She hesitated, then went on, “We’ve all been reminded very painfully today of how quickly a prince’s life can be lost. Pol is simply too valuable to risk.”
“So was I.” He paused, then went on softly, “My parents kept me sheltered until I was thirteen—well past the usual age for fostering. When they did let me go, it was to my cousin Hadaan at Remagev—barely a day’s ride from Stronghold. I had a little more freedom there, but not much. By the time my father’s last war with the Merida came, I was frantic to prove myself, so I marched out disguised as a common soldier. It was a damned foolish thing to do. I could very easily have been killed. But they’d forbidden me to go as the heir, you see. Maeta’s mother, who commanded the Stronghold guard before her, caught me but decided to look the other way. She understood that I ‘d been more or less driven to it by my parents’ cosseting. My poor mother nearly had heart failure and my father was furious with me. But he also knighted me on the field.”
“And you don’t want Pol driven to the same kind of thing,” Pandsala mused. “Even so, my lord, it’s a terrible chance to take.”
“Sioned will be livid when she finds out, of course. But I can’t help that. I often wonder why I didn’t defy my parents much sooner. Perhaps it was lack of opportunity—but I suspect it was really fear of my father.” He shrugged.
“It was the same for me,” she said, looking anywhere but at him. “We were all terrified of Roelstra. But you never hated your father the way I did mine.”
“With us as examples, do you wonder why I allow Pol the freedom to do this? He won’t have the need to do anything as foolhardy as I did—“
“Or as wicked as I did. We are indeed edifying examples, my lord.” She gave him a tiny smile. “Very well, I understand—but I’ll make sure my best people go with him on the climb.”
“Thank you. It’s all we can ever do, you know—take what precautions we can, and trust to the Goddess’ mercy for the rest.” He sighed ruefully. “Frankly, the whole idea of this scares me silly. But I have to let Pol be who and what he is. He’s going to be, whether I allow it or not—so why fight it?”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“Besides,” Rohan finished with a grin, “my hatchling quite naturally wants to fly. Pandsala, I’d like to meet privately with each of the vassals tomorrow. Will you arrange it for me, please?”
“Of course, my lord.” She paused thoughtfully, searching his eyes. “Do you know, with all the differences between you and my father—both as men and as High Prince—I think it all may come down to one simple thing. My father never said ‘please’ to anybody in his life.”
* * *
Pol was glad of his thick leather jacket as updrafts from the river far below sent chill gusts along the cliffs. Summer was three-quarters over, and whereas in the Desert and at Graypearl the days would still be searingly hot, here in the mountains clouds had formed again last night. Having finally won permission from his father to make the climb—after four days of alternating pleas with de- tailed plans—Pol had been frantic lest a late-summer rain spoil his chance. They were due to leave for Waes in two days; the climb had to be this morning or not at all.
He looked down for the first time since beginning the upward struggle, and gulped. He hadn’t realized how far he’d come, how far below him the river now was. He clung more tightly to the iron ring driven into the rock face and forced himself to lift his head, trying to judge the distance to the top and how long it would take to get there. A tug on the rope around his waist signaled that it was time to make the next move across the cliff. He swallowed hard, refusing to admit that he had been a fool to attempt this climb.
As fingers and toes found holds, his confidence returned. This wasn’t much different from scrambling up ragged, wind-sculpted stone in the Vere Hills, except for the distance down. The view was splendid; he really did feel akin to the dragons. He imagined himself equipped with wings, bracing for flight and then soaring out over the gorge, every fiber of his body singing— “Pol! Pay attention!”
Maeta’s command alerted him, and he was reminded that he definitely was not a dragon. He scrambled up to join her on a tiny ledge, breathing hard.
“Some fun, eh?” She grinned at him. “You’re doing fine. Give Maarken’s rope a tug and let’s get started for the top.”
“How much farther?” He squinted upward.
“About half the time it took us to get this far. Then we can have lunch, rest, and fly back down.”
“I wish we could’ve flown up. “
Maeta laughed and rubbed his shoulder affectionately. “It’s the challenge that counts. The privilege of flight has to be earned, you know. Besides, think of the nice, quiet ride back up the canyon when we’re done! I’ll even let you fall asleep on your horse. See you at the top, hatch-ling.”
She set off again and Pol watched her find the handholds near the next iron ring. Maeta threaded the rope through and tied it off to provide Pol’s support for the next part of his climb, just as she was linked to the man above her for safety. Soon Maarken had joined Pol on the ledge, panting to catch his breath.
“I must’ve been crazy to agree to this!”
“You and me both,” Pol admitted. “I’m running out of fingernails.” He held out hands scraped and bloodied by gripping sharp stone, and grinned at his cousin. “But it’s worth it! Take a look!”
Maarken seemed to inhale the sky and trees and cliffs, his gaze lingering as Pol’s did on the multicolored wild-flowers clinging to the rocks. “Wonderful!” he exclaimed. “But I don’t dare look down—last time I did I nearly lost my breakfast. I don’t think I’ll be able to climb my way out of bed tomorrow! But you’re right, it’s worth it.” He peered across the canyon, and pointed. ‘ ‘Is that your father and Pandsala?”
Pol waved and nearly lost his balance. Maarken steadied him with a firm grip on his shoulder. “Thanks,” he said shakily. “D’you think they can see us?”
“That blue jacket of yours must be visible for half a measure.”
“As if you’re inconspicuous!” Pol scoffed, flicking a finger against his cousin’s bright red. Another tug on the rope alerted him, and he set off again. After half a morning of this he was sure of what he was doing, but the ridges cut into the stone had been made for a full-grown person, not a boy coming up on his fifteenth winter. He had to stretch quite a bit sometimes to reach the holds, and his shoulders and legs were beginning to ache in earnest. “When the hell am I going to grow?” he muttered as he scrabbled for a niche and barely reached it.
He was also eager to grow in ways other than height. Over the past few days Pol had sat in on talks with men who were nominally his vassals, and the ambassadors and emissaries from other princedoms. Rohan’s warning that a prince must listen to some very tedious people had been forcibly demonstrated; at times, Pol could barely keep his eyes open. But it was amusing to watch these people look back and forth from him to Rohan—one the real owner of Princemarch and the other its real ruler. They couldn’t seem to decide if they ought to be seriously concerned with Pol’s opinions or treat him with a kind of half-amused indulgence: the boy pretending to be a prince. It would be nice to be older, he mused as he sought for the next toehold, to be Maarken’s age and Maarken’s height, with Maarken’s easy authority.
He had just secured himself to the next ring when a metallic clang hit rock. His head turned, and something gray and slightly rusty flew past him down into the canyon. Looking up, he saw Maeta frozen on the cliif face, arms and legs outspread.
“Maeta!”
“Check the ring, Pol. Hurry.”
He inspected the iron circle and terror stopped his heart for a moment. The spike anchoring the ring had worked loose. If stressed, it probably would hold no weight greater than his own, and might not even support him for very long.
“It’s coming out, isn’t it?” Maeta called softly, her voice slightly breathless.
He explored the joining of spike and stone. “Somebody’s picked at it!”
“I thought as much.” She hesitated, then said, “My rope’s frayed, too.”
“The man ahead of you must’ve—“
“I don’t think so. Not and risk his own life in the process. Pol, untie the rope connecting us.”
He realized what she was asking. “No! If you lose hold, you’ll fall!”
“And if I fall with the rope tied to the ring and to you, I’ll take you with me. Do as I say.”
“Maeta—I can climb up to you—“
“No!” The force of her exclamation shifted her body, and pebbles trickled down from the slender purchase gained by her left boot. “Listen to me, kinsman,” she said more softly. “This is no accident. The ring that just fell had been dug loose. I was a fool not to see it before. I apologize, my prince.”
“Maeta, just hold still. I’ll come up to you. Neither of us will fall—“
“Damn it, untie the rope! I don’t intend to fall! But if I do, you and Maarken won’t be able to hold me, not with that ring ready to come out of the rock! Do it, Pol! The longer you take, the longer I have to stay as I am.”
He choked back another protest and did as told. Maar- ken, still on the ledge below, called up, “Stay put, both of you! I’ll get the rope around the rocks!”
“Maarken-don’t let her fall!”
Although what he thought his cousin might do was beyond him. His gaze fixed on Maeta, willing her to find a more secure grip. She found a crevice, then another, groping for holds that would take some of the strain from her muscles.
“Pol, don’t move.” Maarken was just below him. “I’ve lashed the rope to some rocks and alerted everyone below us. Let me past you and I’ll tie the other end to Maeta.”
Pol flattened himself against the cliff as Maarken maneuvered past his legs, finding holds where none had been carved into the cliff. “She’s more secure now,” the boy said, amazed at the calm voice he didn’t recognize as his own. “What do you want me to do?”
“Climb back to the ledge, get a grip on the rope, and brace yourself.” Maarken paused to pat his leg reassuringly, then slid by and started for Maeta.
It had been much easier to stretch upward with his arms than it was to grope downward with his feet while his fingers dug into the crevices. He was nearly to the narrow ledge when he heard a thin hissing sound that made him flinch with reaction. The steel tip of an arrow struck a spark off stone an arm’s length from his head.
“Maarken!” he yelled.
“Get behind the rocks!”
Another arrow brought a flash near Maarken’s feet. Pol scrambled to safety and stared across the gorge at Castle Crag. The arrows had to be coming from there, loosed by a viciously powerful bow to reach all the way across. But the towers were too far away for him to see the bowman, who might have been hidden in any one of a hundred windows. Pandsala, he thought irrelevantly, was going to be furious.
Maarken was right below Maeta now, his fingers within reach of her ankle. The climbers above her had tossed down a fresh rope, and she tried to grab it as they swung it closer to her hands. Maarken shouted to her to keep still. Another arrow and then another hit the stones with faint ringing sounds. Pol curled as small as he could get behind an outcropping of stone, fists clenched, salt sweat burning in his eyes. “Come on, come on,” he whispered. “Please—‘
Maarken pulled himself up nearly beside Maeta, his arm reaching for her waist. She coughed and gave a start of surprise. Very slowly her hand reached back to fumble at the arrow embedded next to her spine, an arrow fletched in brown and yellow. Merida colors.
Her fingers loosened. Her tall body arched over backward, giving Pol a view of her already dead face, her sightless black eyes. It took forever for her to fall away from Maarken’s desperate grasp, away from the gray cliff, past Pol, drifting down to brush against jagged stones and finally disappear into the dark depths of the canyon. There were no more arrows. Pol turned tear-blurred eyes to Castle Crag and saw a bright flame rising from the upper battlements. Like a torch flame at this distance, a single light against the shadowy bulk of the keep—but a flame that grew arms that thrashed in futile agony as Sunrunner’s Fire immolated human flesh. The torch flared, then sank out of sight.
He felt Maarken’s hands on his shoulders, heard sobbing breaths. “Pol—are you all right? Not hurt? Talk to me!”
He looked at Maarken without comprehension. Sweat and tears streaked his cousin’s face, and there was a gash circled by a swelling bruise on Maarken’s forehead. “I’m not hurt,” he heard himself say. “But you are.”
“Just a scratch. Never mind me. We’ll stay here for a while until you stop shaking.” Maarken’s strong arm went around him.
“I’m not shaking,” Pol said, then realized he was. He buried his face against his cousin’s shoulder.
“Shh. She’s worth more than our tears, Pol, but that’s all we can give her right now. Even though she’d scold us for it.”
“If—if she hadn’t made me untie the rope—“ “Then we would’ve lost you, too,” Maarken said thickly. “Sweet Goddess, to have that woman’s courage—“ After a time they quieted, and Maarken’s embrace re- laxed a little. “All right now?” he asked, wiping his own cheeks.
Pol nodded. “I’ll find who did it, and I’ll kill him.”
“Pandsala already has. You saw the Fire. She killed with her gift.”
Shock warred with fierce joy that the archer was dead. But stronger than either, outrage stiffened Pol’s spine. Pandsala had acted peremptorily, killing the assassin before he could be questioned.
“She’ll answer to me,” Pol corrected. “I am prince here, and I’m the one they wanted dead. If the loosened rings didn’t do it, then the archer was there to finish me off. Why didn’t Pandsala order the man subdued and held?”
“I’m sure she’ll have a good explanation.” He waved to the rest of the climbers, who were making their way swiftly to the ledge. “Meantime, it seems we’re arguing with her for saving our lives. Would you rather be dead?”
“No. But she didn’t have to kill him—especially not that way.”
“Remember whose daughter she is.”
“And whose son I am.” Pol knuckled his eyes and took a deep breath to steady himself. “Did you see the arrows, Maarken? Brown and yellow. Merida.”
“Who else?”
* * *
Pandsala was not merely furious. In her father or her sister lanthe, this rage would have brought further executions. She wanted to find someone else to punish, someone on whom to vent this terrible fury of shame and fear. She watched the Merida burn down to ash in Sun-runner’s Fire and only the presence of the High Prince prevented her from calling the captain of her guard and killing him, too, for allowing a traitor to invade Castle Crag.
Rohan, set-faced, turned away from the writhing, stinking flames. His gaze sought the cliffs opposite, where Pol and Maarken were being helped up to the cliff-top. He walked around the smoldering corpse and stood with his hands flat on the wall, the stone cool and gritty beneath his palms. The canyon gaped below him, magnificent and lethal. The Faolain River seethed white foam against the rocks. Had this been the Desert, scavenger birds would already be circling. But this was not the Desert, and they would find Maeta’s broken body far downriver or wedged among the crags—if they found her at all. Death in dark water was not suited to a woman of bright sands and endless skies.
He was aware of Pandsala’s presence behind him. Her rage made him marvel at his own deadly calm. He ought to be roaring out his fury, ordering reprisals against the Merida hidden in the valleys of Cunaxa. Twice now they had attempted Pol’s life; by rights he should be claiming a hundred Merida lives for each threat against his son. His northern levies under Walvis’ command were already near the border. He had only to send word to Sioned via Maarken on the sunlight, and the invasion would begin. He knew why he would not. All the evidence was gone: arrows with their telltale colored fletching, face with its probable chin-scar, mouth with its secrets of identity and infiltration silent forever. The law was the law, and to act without evidence would be to become like Pandsala’s father Roelstra, a High Prince who did as he wished and shrugged at the law.
Rohan saw Pol and Maarken safely hoisted up to the clifftop, knowing they would rest for a time before making their long way around to the path to the crossing upriver. It would be past nightfall before their return to Castle Crag, before he could look on his son’s living face again.
“My lord,” Pandsala began.
“No.” He glanced briefly at her, then at the pathetic heap of gray-black ash on the stones. “Not now.” He walked slowly down the spiraling stairs to the main part of the castle, his goal the crystalline oratory sparkling in the sunlight. The etched and faceted glass threw rainbows over the white carpet and furnishings, across gold and silver on the table. Rohan went to the far wall and sank to the floor, legs folded up, spine pressed against the stone where it merged with clear crystal. From here he could see the cliffs and watch his son’s progress down the canyon road and know that Pol was safe.
For how long?
Rohan bent his head, covering his face with his hands.
What good was all his power if he could not protect his son? He ought to crush the Merida now, and Prince Mi-yon of Cunaxa as well for giving them shelter. Tobin would see this assassination attempt as the perfect excuse for invasion, even better than a Cunaxan encroachment onto Fironese soil. Why couldn’t Rohan do it?
And there was more he ought to do. Accept the Fironese invitation and claim the princedom now. Order his wife’s brother Davvi to have the heiress Gemma instantly married to either of his sons, thereby securing part of Pol’s future through his kinsmen. No, Rohan reminded himself dully. Not kinsmen. Sioned was not Pol’s blood mother. lanthe was. lanthe, daughter of Roelstra, High Prince and tyrant. And here in the environs of Castle Crag, Pol had nearly died. Did Roelstra’s malignant spirit linger here, as Rohan had vaguely sensed the other night?
He turned his face to the sunlight, felt its warmth on his body. Neither Roelstra’s presence nor Roelstra’s example would taint Pol. Rohan would not order the invasion of Cunaxa; neither would he seize a princedom, nor play politics with a young girl whose only crime was to be born a princess. He had watched Roelstra use his daughters as bargaining points, seen Roelstra’s armies on Desert soil during a war based on flimsy pretext. He would not be the kind of High Prince Roelstra had been. If this was seen by some as weakness—he shrugged, for he cared about very few opinions in this world.
He looked around at the rainbows on the white carpet, smudges of color against colorlessness. The oratory was finer for the sunlight, for the colors that spoke of its Sun-runner prince. But the things with which Roelstra had filled this oratory would have to be replaced.
Rohan got to his feet, walked slowly around the perimeter of the glass cage to the table with its rich ornaments. His fingers clenched around one gold-and-amethyst goblet. An instant later a crystal pane shattered, and the priceless trinket vanished down the canyon to the dark water.
* * *
Pol held himself with the stiffness of abused muscles and utter exhaustion. His body was reluctant to obey the order of his pride to stand straight and behave as the son of his father and mother ought. He walked into the huge banqueting hall without looking at any eyes other than those that were so like his own in a face as sternly controlled.
Relieved murmurings chased each other through the assembly of vassals, ambassadors, and retainers. Pol was dimly aware of them, but most of his attention was focused on his father and on controlling a shameful need to be folded in strong arms. At this moment when he must conduct himself as a man, he had never felt more like a boy in need of his father’s embrace.
Rohan descended the four steps from the high table and met Pol with a hand on his shoulder and a slight smile. The gesture and expression appeared casual, but Pol felt the long fingers tighten with fierce possessive love. Then Rohan looked over Pol’s head to the crowd. Then they both turned and faced the gathering.
“We thank the Goddess and the good people of Castle Crag for the safety of our beloved son. With such protection, he will surely govern long and well over Prince-march.”
A cheer went up, and Pol felt his father tense as if trying not to hug him close. He understood; they were not father and son right now but High Prince and Heir. He looked around him, surprised at the real joy and relief on most faces, intrigued by the careful smiles on others. No one here wanted his death, he was sure of it. But there were those who would not mourn too long.
He and Maarken followed Rohan up to the dais, where Pol took the chair between his father and Pandsala. Her face was pale and expressionless; she would not look at him. Maarken sat on Rohan’s other side, as weary and aching as Pol but just as determined not to show it.
The hall was silent. Rohan said, “Tell us what happened.”
Pol did. They had not stopped to wash or change clothes; he wanted everyone to see their bruises and dirt. He made especially certain that all knew of Maeta’s sacrifice, and if there was a catch in his voice as he spoke, no one blamed him. When he told of the colors on the arrow that had killed her, a low rumble went through the hall. His account ended with praise for those who had helped him and Maarken to safety; he had made sure on the way back to learn their names. He paused then, ending with, “I’m grateful for your care of me today, and I’m sorry I didn’t complete the climb and failed in my—“
They did not let him finish the sentence. “Failed?” someone cried. “We were the ones who failed you!” And above similar protests another called out, “It’s a stupid custom that nearly cost us our prince!”
“I’m going to try again,” Pol insisted. “And next time I’ll make it to the top and earn the flight back down— and I’ll do it all on my own, too!”
“Not if I have anything to say about it!” The large, burly form of Cladon, athri of River Ussh, stomped forth from chair to aisle. “You proved your courage and that’s what the climb is for! We’ll not risk you again, young prince!”
“But it’s the closest I’ll ever come to flying like a dragon!” Pol was instantly aware of how childish that sounded, and felt his cheeks burn. But though laughter rippled through the hall, it was kind, understanding, even admiring. He was confused until he heard his father whisper, “Well done! You have them now, my hatch-ling.” And he realized that without meaning to, he had done something very clever. The highborns of Prince-march would have been duly impressed with a completed climb—but the attempt on Pol’s life had done more to increase his value in their eyes than anything else could have done. And he had sealed their commitment by vowing to do the climb again. He was theirs now, claimed by them all as their prince.
It was an odd feeling, vaguely reminiscent for a moment of his reaction on arrival, a little like being offered up on a golden plate. But then he understood. In claiming him, they had also given themselves. His father was right. He had them. If he was theirs, they were also his.
“We’ll discuss it some other time, Lord Cladon,” Rohan said, with a sidelong glance for Pol that combined paternal firmness and princely order. Another chuckle went through the assembly and Cladon bowed, satisfied as to Rohan’s cautionary instincts. “For the moment,” the High Prince went on, “we’re happy to have him back safe and sound.”
“I—I have something else I’d like to say.” Pol was amazed when the sound of his voice commanded instant silence. “When we find Maeta—she told me how beautiful she thought this land. I’d like to hold her ritual here, so that a little of her will remain in Princemarch, before her ashes are returned to the Desert.”
“Well said, your grace!” Lord Dreslav of Grand Ver-esch stood, his cup lifted high. “To our young prince!”
Later, when the royal pair were alone in Pol’s chamber and they were only father and son again, Rohan clasped Pol tight to his chest. Pol clung to him, trembling with weariness. After a time he calmed down and pulled away.
“You don’t mind, do you? About Maeta’s burning?”
“No. It was a good thought, politically as well as personally. I know she’d like becoming part of this land you’ll rule one day. They say here that the ashes of the dead become flowers.” Rohan sat heavily in a chair and rubbed his eyes. “But I want the wind off the Long Sand for myself, Pol. Promise me that wherever I end, you’ll bring me back home.”
“Father—you can’t die! Don’t talk that way.” He knelt beside the chair and grasped his father’s arm.
“I’m sorry.” Rohan smiled fleetingly. “I’m very tired, and watching you on that cliff wasn’t calculated to add years to my life.”
“I shouldn’t have gone. Maeta would still be alive.”
“And there would still be a Merida here to threaten you. Don’t ever second-guess life, Pol.”
He rested his cheek on Rohan’s knee. “Mother’s not going to be happy,” he murmured.
“Maarken will know how to explain it to her. She’ll understand.”
“Even the way Pandsala killed the archer?”
“Your mother . . . has done similar things. She’ll understand that, too.”
Pol tried to imagine his mother doing what Pandsala had done—and it was only too easy to see her green eyes blazing as she called down Fire in defense of what she loved.
“That’s why she and Lady Andrade don’t get along,”
Rohan said suddenly. “Speaking of whom, she’ll have quite a bit to say about this and I don’t think Pandsala will enjoy any- of it. But I doubt Andrade will even attempt to punish her. She broke the vow, but she also saved your life.”
“Father, do you approve of what she did?”
“The man should have been taken alive and questioned. He might have given me the excuse I needed—in front of witnesses—to invade Cunaxa and destroy the Merida once and for all.” He stared at the dark, empty windows.
“But you’re tempted to do it just the same?” Pol ventured.
“Without justification, I can do nothing.” He looked down at Pol. “Do you understand? Do you see that dearly as I love you, and afraid as I am for you, I can’t go against the laws I myself helped to write?”
“Of course I understand,” Pol said, hiding astonishment that his father should be saying such things to him. “Besides, it might not’ve been the Merida behind this at all. It might be the man who claims to be Roelstra’s son.”
“Perhaps.” Rohan rubbed his eyes. “It’ll be worse at the Rialla. “
“I’ll be careful.”
“I doubt there’ll be another attempt before then. They’d have to be more subtle. Not everyone is happy that one day you’ll rule two princedoms and probably a goodly chunk of Firon as well. I don’t mean to worry you with it, especially at your age, but you must know what we’re up against.”
Pol said softly, “Thank you for saying ‘we.’ You never have before.”
Rohan blinked. “Haven’t I?”
“No. It’s always between you and Mother, or Chay, or Maarken—never me included as an active partner.”
His father looked bemused. “It seems as if you’ve impressed me as well as everyone else today with the fact that you’re growing up. Very well. We, meaning you and I, have a great deal to talk about. But we also need to sleeri until at least noon tomorrow. And that is an order that we, as the High Prince and your father, will hold you to obeying.”
Pol made a face, then laughed. “I’m going to climb that cliff and fly down one day. I’m not the Dragon’s Son for nothing!”
“But still a hatchling. Fly over to your bed and get some sleep.”