Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire (13 page)

“Give me credit for being subtle, boy.”

“Well,
she’s
not,” he said frankly. “She covets Castle Crag the way some covet wine. She’s the only one of Roelstra’s daughters not born there, and she’s never set foot in the place. Pandsala forbade it and Ostvel won’t let her within a hundred measures. But she wants it and would die to possess it even for a day. It’s the symbol of royalty to her.”

Mireva nodded slowly. “After six winters at Goddess Keep, and fifteen more living with whichever half-sister would tolerate her for a while, and finally having her birth publicly doubted—I can understand her. That’s helpful, Marron. But she can’t be allowed to interfere with our right to Princemarch.”

“We need her. We’ll have to give her something.”

“Miyon alone is not enough,” she mused. “He sits atop the Desert, but I need Chiana’s armies to take Princemarch.”

“You mean you’ve allied with that Cunaxan snake?” he gasped.

“Remind me one day to tell you about it.” She grinned at him, then sobered. “So Castle Crag is the key to opening Chiana. Thank you for that, Marron.” Rising, she smoothed her skirts. “I’ll meet you outside the gates later. I’m anxious to meet this Princess of Meadowlord.”

“I’m not sure I can arrange it—”

Her gaze and her fingers grasped at him. “If you wish to live long enough to battle your brother for Princemarch and the Desert, I suggest you find a way. I only need Ruval, you know.”

“And he needs
me,
” he stated, trying to hide his fright.

She only laughed.

Marron kept his steps firm and even as he left the enclosed garden. But he was shaking by the time he got back to his chamber at the castle. Even in privacy he dared not weaken, however—it was as if he could feel two pairs of eyes, one piercing gray-green and the other fiercely blue, watching him, could hear laughter aimed at him.

A large cup of wine and a memory calmed him. The
dranath
was less responsible for his renewed confidence than the recollection that Mireva had not caught him in his almost-lie. It was true enough that Ruval’s father was dead, but not of a wasting sickness—unless one included slow poison in that category. Marron might not know the complete range of
diarmadhi
spells, but he knew very well how to create death in a bottle of wine.

 

 

“It’s late. I’m tired.”

“I thought her prattle might amuse your grace,” Marron said diffidently. Chiana shrugged. “There are many such women in the Veresch where I grew up. Harmless, of course, or I would never have brought this one to your grace’s attention. But sometimes one is entertained by their tricks.”

The scowling princess tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. It had not been an entirely successful evening, Marron had heard. Strings repeatedly snapped in the chill night air, putting an early end to the music, and Chiana had been forced to converse with her lowborn guests.

He waited for her decision, playing humble and anxious servitor. At last she shrugged again and nodded. “Oh, very well, Mirris. Send her to me. Wait—is she clean?”

“I took the liberty, your grace. . . .” He trailed off delicately.

“Fetch her, then. If she amuses me, have her fed and paid afterward.”

“Very good, your grace.”

He stepped out of the chamber, soothing his eyes with the cool length of white-and-gold corridor. A relief after the hundreds of different greens in the private reception room, colors Chiana surrounded herself with in the belief that any and all shades of green suited her auburn looks.
Diarmadh’im
were as sensitive to color as any Sunrunner; the juxtaposition of hues no forest or meadow would ever know was as acutely painful as a score of lutes playing different tunes, all off-key.

Mireva waited at a back door. She had dressed her part as mountain witch in a many-patched rag of a gown, an old black shawl, and thin wool gloves missing three fingers and a thumb. Stooped, bedraggled, with quivering hands and aimless gestures, if he had not known her, he would not have known her. He hid a grin on recalling Chiana’s fastidious query about her cleanliness, and ordered her to follow him.

“And no begging for money, mind,” he snapped as they paused outside Chiana’s suite. “Amuse her grace and you may see a few coins. Displease her, and you’ll be lucky to leave with your tongue still between your teeth.”

The gray-green gaze twisted up at him, sardonically acknowledging his enjoyment of the role played for the benefit of the young servant who carried the
rathiv
-wrapped mirror.

Marron scratched at the door, opened it, and announced, “The . . . person, your grace.”

Chiana, magnificent in a yellow-green gown that clashed with the pillows of her chair, waved a languid hand. “A witch, eh?” she said as Mireva approached and bowed several times. “The only witch whom I
know
to be a witch is the High Princess Sioned.”

“I’ve heard it said that Lady Andrade was, too, Your Splendor.”

“And who would know it better than I?” Chiana laughed mirthlessly. “Very well. Mirris, bring a chair.”

Mireva shook her head and bowed again. “No need, Your Radiance. The floor is good enough for me, especially in such a presence.”

The rug was spread across polished stone, the mirror set on it almost as an afterthought. As the servant bowed and left, Chiana began to look interested.

“If Your Graciousness would be so kind as to show me her pretty hands, perhaps I can read something of her future.”

“Perhaps?” But Chiana stuck out both slim, white, beringed hands. Her lip curled as Mireva touched her fingertips. “Well?”

“If I might look into those lovely eyes?”

Marron bit back a grin, wondering if Mireva intended to inspect Chiana’s teeth. Hazel eyes stared unblinking into gray-green. Mireva made a few noises low in her throat, then settled back on her heels, nodding sagely.

“Speak!” Chiana ordered.

“I am overwhelmed by the brilliance of your future. To be sure, I must look into a flame lit by Your Grandeur’s own hand.”

“Mirris, bring a candle.”

Chiana struck steel to flint and the wick sprang to life. Mireva peered into the flame—giving it all she had, Marron thought, greatly amused—muttering to herself while the princess fidgeted. At length a wide smile broke across her face, revealing artfully blackened teeth.

“Your Greatness will be granted her dearest wish: to enter Castle Crag as a princess.”

Chiana sat forward, snared. “Have you seen it? What else? Will I rule there? Will my son?”

“Slowly, gently! I have seen many things. Deaths. . . .”

“Whose?”

“Two men. Fair-haired, much alike, from a land that burns.”

“Rohan and Pol!” Chiana laughed. “But what of Sioned? Does she die, too?”

Mireva’s face twitched slightly. “Her death . . . is written.”

Marron kept his face smooth—not that either paid him any mind. Sioned frightened Mireva. She would have denied it if asked, but he knew the High Princess was her target even more than Pol.

Chiana burbled with glee. “Wonderful! When? Tell me when!”

“Before the next
Rialla.
Your Worshipfulness must prepare herself for a long, difficult fight—I see soldiers, horses—”

“What?” the princess exclaimed angrily, the candle flame almost guttering with her breath. “There won’t be any war. The Desert and Pricemarch have us on two sides, and Syr is on a third. Kostas would come to his Aunt Sioned’s aid in an instant.”

“It will be difficult, Your Mightiness. But there is no other way to win Castle Crag.”

The words had the desired effect. Chiana’s eyes sharpened with the look of a starving woman shown a banquet through a window.

“I
will
have it. Rinhoel will rule all Princemarch from Castle Crag—”

“No.” Mireva let the word fall like a stone. “I see a name, but it is not that of your son. A kinsman. Close. Very close to you.”

“I have no brother and my father is dead. Who else could claim Princemarch, once Pol is—” She paled suddenly. “No! Not Kostas’ son by Danladi! My son will inherit!
My
son!”

“No,” the old woman repeated. “The one who will rule Princemarch is Ruval.”

Only for as long as it takes me to kill him,
Marron thought.

“Ianthe’s son,” Mireva whispered.

Chiana’s delicate knuckles whitened around the candle, “Ianthe—!”

“Ruval, Your Wisdom’s nephew, will reclaim—”

“Not if I can help it,” was the grim reply.

“If Your Magnificence will indulge an old woman—please, look into this mirror. It will help me see more clearly.”

Marron reminded himself to ask how long it had taken to think up all the honorifics—and then lost all impulse toward humor as the mirror was turned, angled at the princess. Chiana slid to the floor on her knees with the candle barely secure in lax fingers, lost.

Shaken, he locked his own knees and clenched his jaw shut. He knew about the mirror hidden in the back room of Mireva’s hillside dwelling; this one looked older still and was undoubtedly even more powerful. They had really known how to make mirrors back then, had his
diarmadhi
ancestors. . . .

The reflected candlelight illumined Chiana’s face in smoky gold. Mireva’s voice crooned to her, soft and unthreatening.

“Your son will never rule Princemarch. That is reserved for those of the oldest blood. But there is a way to gain Castle Crag. Support Prince Ruval in all he does. If you wish to see Sioned burn in her own Fire, obey me. If you wish vengeance on the Sunrunners who jailed you in childhood, you will obey. If you wish to enter Castle Crag as a princess. . . .”

“I—will obey,” Chiana whispered, her voice like death.

“And when you do, you will be strong. I will give you this mirror to remind you. Keep it with you always. Look into it by starshine every evening. If you wish to live. . . .”

“I will obey.”

“Leave us,” Mireva said over her shoulder in a completely different voice. Marron gave a start. “Now,” she added sharply. And he fled.

A
ndry came from a family whose members had no difficulty expressing themselves. In fact, Chay had observed more than once that Tobin never shut up, even in her sleep. But it was a long time since Andry had spoken to any of his relations with complete honesty, saying precisely what was on his mind—or in his heart—without hesitation. Time and titles had come between them and him. But today he would change that. He had to, if they were to survive.

Everything was ready in the long room above the gates—the goblets, the Sunrunner at his side, even the clothes Andry wore—all of it exactly as Andry had planned, and as Lady Merisel mentioned in her writings. Though she warned against symbols rather than endorsing them.
“Symbols stand for power. But don’t mistake one for the other—as my enemies often did, poor things. And don’t allow the symbols to make you forget what they should help you remember. The rings are only as strong as the hands wearing them.”

Two of his chosen symbols—the goblets—waited to be filled with wine and
dranath.
Actually, he’d taken a lesson from Rohan in this: Rohan who knew how to use expensive things to impress and, if he wished, to awe. Look at Dragon’s Rest, Andry thought, or even Stronghold’s Great Hall. Or even the High Prince himself when he wanted to remind certain people of exactly who he was—clad in rich silk and gleaming gems and that ultimate symbol of his authority, his coronet. But Rohan could show up bareheaded, barefoot, in peasant woolens, and still dominate everyone—with the living symbol that was Sioned at his side.

Andry had not yet reached a time when he could dispense with the props. But he could wait. The goblets were for himself and Nialdan, the clothes for the Sunrunners assembling now in the courtyard. Nialdan himself was a symbol of sorts, though the young man would have gaped at the very notion. Though Andry was a tall man, well-made and muscular, Nialdan was built like a tree. He topped Andry by a head and outspanned him in the shoulders by two hands. Brown eyes regarded the world patiently from a brown face below reddish-brown hair. Nialdan wore six rings that had not come from the coffer Andry inherited with his position here—the Waesian’s smallest finger was as thick as any other man’s thumb. He didn’t just knock on a door; he dealt it a mortal blow, and his rings had to be specially made.

For him, too, a special goblet had been fashioned, shaded with the browns and russets and greens of his mind. Colors were symbols, too, and the gems that Sunrunners used to define them. The Star Scroll was rife with jewel symbology. A faint prickling of irritation stung Andry when he thought of the scroll.

He’d invited Maarken to look at the illuminated final copy just that morning. His brother had more comments for the delicate drawings than for the text—because he had seen the copy Urival had made in secret and taken with him to Stronghold three years ago. The copy Andry wasn’t supposed to know about.

Maarken inspected the painted capitals, the tiny marginal sketches of various plants mentioned in recipes, and the star clusters that headed each division of topics. That he did not read more than a few words here and there was indication enough that he had no need to. Andry wondered if his brother knew how completely he had given himself away.

Not that reading would have done anyone any good. This was a direct translation, exactly as Lady Merisel had dictated it—but lacking the little markers that indicated lies. Anyone attempting to cast a spell or concoct a potion using this version of the Star Scroll would be sadly disappointed.

The accurate copy resided in Andry’s chambers. He supposed Maarken knew about that one, as well. Today Andry would show him the uses to which he had put it.

He knew how Urival had used the other copy—an accurate one, Goddess damn the old man. When he’d died late last winter, Andry had almost asked for its return along with the few things of Andrade’s sent back to the archives after Urival’s death.