Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire (34 page)

“I suppose so. Ell, are you by any chance concealing something from me?”

She froze with her laden fork halfway to her mouth and stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

He gestured to the pastry. “We stopped for something to eat on the road today, so you can’t be starving to death. And the
last
time you devoured everything in sight. . . .” He trailed off, one brow arching.

“When was—oh!” She blushed. “No, I’m not.” Then, rallying from her momentary shock, she laughed and added, “Though it’s not from lack of trying!”

Tallain gave a modest shrug. “I’m compelled to admit it, in consciousness of duty done—”

“Idiot,” she accused fondly.

“Well, I try.” He grinned. “But in the meantime, if you’re not eating for two, then stop eating!”

She made a face and finished off the pastry. But when Jahnavi came to pour taze, she shook her head to the sweets that accompanied it. Regretfully; nowhere but at Dragon’s Rest and Castle Crag did one taste such marvels as spice seeds wrapped in candied fruit and covered in caramelized sugar.

Between courses various musicians had appeared singly, but now the whole household orchestra assembled. As servants moved the lower tables out of the way, many of Stronghold’s retainers took up instruments. Rohan’s mother had pleaded for years with his father to hire a suite of musicians, but Zehava’s reply had always been that he did not intend to support twenty or thirty parasites. Rohan was of the same mind. So music at Stronghold was provided not by professionals but by the castlefolk themselves. The quality of the entertainment had never suffered for it. As a lively tune began to set feet tapping, Sionell gave her husband a pointed look.

He grinned again, but obeyed her overt hint and asked Meiglan to dance. The girl blanched, stammered, and was not permitted to refuse. Riyan, without prompting, claimed a dance for himself after Tallain. Seeing her thus securely launched, Sionell leaned back and sipped her taze, satisfied. The Cunaxan prince might ignore his daughter, but nobody else would.

Rohan partnered Lady Ruala while Sioned did her duty by Miyon. Andry led his sister-by-marriage into the set. Sionell found herself claimed by Maarken, who, having eyes, had noticed Pol’s preoccupation.

“Your little friend is quite a success,” he told her when the figure allowed him close enough to whisper in her ear. “Watch—Pol will be next.”

Pol was indeed casting impatient looks at Meiglan while he exchanged the bows and gestures of the dance with Tobin. Sionell glanced around at the other highborn women in the Great Hall—beautiful, vibrant, confident women, sure of themselves and their worth. Despite the damage done by Miyon’s deliberate cruelties, Meiglan could not help but learn from their example. And, indeed, she made a pretty picture, guided gracefully through the steps by Tallain, her pink gown swirling.

But Pol did not vie with Riyan for the second dance. He surrendered his aunt to her younger son and made directly for Sionell.

It was a slow tune requiring a half-embrace that, with a partner one desired, could become more than mildly flirtatious. Sionell put her fingertips on Pol’s shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. Part of her would always respond to him. But she was no longer a lovestruck child.

His first words to her as they glided across the blue and green tiles shattered her notions of his good sense.

“Tell me about Lady Meiglan.”

Subtle as ever, she thought. “What did you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“She’s very young, very beautiful, and very innocent. But you can see that with your own eyes.”

“Do you like her?”

“Yes.”

“Do you trust her?”

“As far as anyone Desert-born and Desert-bred trusts any Cunaxan.”

Pol frowned.

The dance called for a flirtatious “escape”; Sionell’s hands slid down Pol’s arms until she was poised lightly at his fingertips, connected to him only by that tentative touch.

“Miyon will use anyone and anything to get what he wants.” She made the required crossover step to her left; Pol countered, blocking her. As the movement was repeated to the right, she added, “What he wanted this spring was to come to Stronghold.”

“And here he is,” Pol said.

Her wrists were grasped and she was drawn in close once more. “Yes. Here he is.”

“And Meiglan with him. How do you think he’d react if I showed interest in her?”

“I think he’s counting on it,” she said bluntly.

“So do I.” He spun her around twice so that her green gown flared, then stood behind her with his hands on her waist again. “But I don’t think he’s counting on
her
reaction to
me.
”

Sionell gave him a startled glance over her shoulder. “Why, you vain, self-centered, conceited—”

Pol only laughed. “Don’t be redundant, Ell!”

For an instant as the dance ended he pulled her back against him. Then he surrendered her to his father before sauntering over to claim Meiglan right out from under Chay’s nose.

“He’s making a complete fool of himself,” Rohan muttered as a country dance began. “After Tilal and Kostas fought over Gemma, he told me to kick him if he displayed the same imbecility. I have the feeling my boot will connect with his backside rather soon.”

Sionell picked up her skirts to execute quick, complicated steps, then placed her hands once more in his. “He knows she’s unsuitable and that Miyon brought her here on purpose.”

“Did he tell you as much?” When she nodded, he smiled. “You made very sure he realized it, didn’t you? Good girl. Still . . . I wonder.”

The ladies again separated from their partners for individual footwork. This was Sionell’s favorite dance and she was very good at it. But as she whirled around she caught sight of Meiglan, frozen in place and mortified by her lack of knowledge. Pol wore his most charming smile as he demonstrated the steps. The girl hardly dared breathe.

Sionell was a little late in clasping Rohan’s fingers again. He was adroit in covering the mistake and, mercifully, said nothing.

Miyon beckoned several of his servants to him as the dance ended. A gesture had them clearing a space at the end of the Great Hall, only ten or so paces from the huge doors. Tables were pushed against the side walls, chairs were stacked atop them, and into the area thus provided was brought an immense stringed instrument.

“Knowing Prince Pol’s fondness for music,” he said with a silken smile, “I thought he might enjoy listening to our Cunaxan
fenath.
” Then, imperiously, “Meiglan!”

Sionell’s fists clenched on the folds of her gown as the girl turned white. Exhausted by the long ride, stunned at recognizing Pol as the man in her dream, edgy with the strain of a formal dinner in the Great Hall of Stronghold, and humiliated by her ignorance of dancing, the last thing the girl needed was a command to perform on this huge and aptly named “string wall.” Sionell was furious with herself for underestimating Prince Miyon.

Meiglan moved woodenly toward the instrument, walking the entire length of the chamber from the high table where everyone had resumed their chairs, the eyes of a hundred and more servants and retainers on her from where they stood along the walls. She approached the harp, hesitating, then circled around it so she faced the high table.

The instrument was obviously an expensive one; Sionell could see that even though she knew next to nothing about music. The frame was made of polished Cunaxan pine inlaid with gold and enamelwork, the tuning pegs decorated with pearlshell. Higher at one end than the height of a very tall man and narrowing to barely an arm’s length, it rested on a cushioned stand that elevated the shorter end and kept its strings in reach. But it was still wider than anyone’s outstretched arms and looked impossible to play.

Meiglan checked the tuning, nodded to herself, and drew six slim little hammers from a velvet pouch hung at the tallest end of the harp. Arranging them between her fingers, three to each hand, she cast an anxious glance toward the high table and bit her lip.

Miyon let the silence drag out, then said, “In times past, the
fenath
would be tuned to a single chording and set outside for the wind to play. Most people now use the lowest strings for one chord, the middle for another, and the high for yet a third.”

Andry nodded. “It was also used before a battle.”

Raised brows greeted this piece of information. “You know about the
fenath,
my lord?”

Andry gave a half-smile. “It was left at the top of a windy hill and tuned to a terrible assonance that scraped enemy nerves raw. I’m confident that the Lady Meiglan will show us its gentler music.”

“Certainly. There is no battle being waged here.” Miyon showed his teeth. Then he snapped his fingers at his daughter. “Begin!”

A few notes ventured timidly into the silent Hall, trembling with the tremor of Meiglan’s hands. Another chord, struck wrong—then suddenly there was a ripple of music, sweet and clear as new rain down a green hillside creek. The tune danced around and beneath and through an undercurrent of delicate chords. Meiglan began to sway gently back and forth as the notes flowed from strings low and high, skirts swinging in time to her music.

A breathless enchantment equal to a Sunrunner’s power darted through the evening air. Beyond the strings and the swift, graceful hands Meiglan’s face was glowing, soft, fully alive. Some women might save a face such as this for a lover, for a coveted jewel, for a dream fulfilled, for a life’s passion. Thus did Sioned’s eyes shine when they rested on her husband, or when she wove sunlight for the sheer joy of the flight.
Faradh’im
knew what spells they cast and the effects of their art. This girl had no consciousness of anyone but herself. A small aloneness was Meiglan, an isolated island of solitary magic.

A slow movement tugged Sionell’s gaze around. Pol had risen to his feet, hands braced on the table, body canted slightly forward. His lips were parted and his eyes were fixed on the slender, swaying form that brought forth such music, such incredible music.

The strings sang one last graceful chord, ending with a single high, pure note.

“My precious treasure,” Miyon said, smiling.

L
ate for an appointment with her steward, Alasen hurried down the hall from the nursery. Dannar was teething, and reacted to the usual salves with roars of outrage that turned his comical little face redder than his hair. The only sure way of settling him down was a song from his father, but Ostvel had already been up half the night with the child so the rest of the castle could get some sleep. Their youngest possessed a truly remarkable set of lungs and wasn’t shy about using them.

“I’m getting too old for this,” Ostvel had sighed when he finally came to bed at dawn. “At least the girls waited until they could walk before they started running the keep. It can’t just be that he’s male—Riyan never screeched like that.”

Alasen’s talk with the steward was directly related to the screeching; there had to be
someone
else at Castle Crag who could sing Dannar to sleep. She rounded a corner and started for the stairway, then broke into a run as she heard her daughters’ voices in excellent imitation of their little brother.

The shrieks that echoed to the rafters did not unduly alarm her, for giggles soon followed. But she knew her girls and was positive that disaster was imminent for some part of the keep. Camigwen and Milar were themselves indestructible, as last winter’s exploit involving a chandelier and a ladder had proved.

Now, instead of two small figures swinging merrily from a ceiling fixture, Alasen was presented with an impromptu sledding party on the stairs. A gigantic silver bowl meant to hold an entire night’s portion of soup had been pressed into service. The handles were gripped in Jeni’s determined fists as she shot head first toward the landing at breakneck speed, Milar clinging to her back like a leech. Alasen was relieved to see they had piled dozens of pillows against the wall to cushion the impact, which was still considerable enough to knock the breath out of them. Pillow seams split and feathers flew like snowflakes.

“Again!” Milar cried from the middle of the blizzard.

“Once more here, then we’ll try the circle stairs.” Jeni sorted out arms and legs, brushed herself off, and hefted the bowl. As she turned to make the climb again, she saw her mother.

Alasen was trying very hard not to laugh. Guilty faces decorated in feathers, they were adorable. Besides, the wild ride had looked like terrific fun.

“The circle stairs, hmm?” she asked.

“We didn’t hurt anything, Mama,” Jeni hastened to explain. “That’s why the pillows. And we didn’t even dent the bowl. See?” She hefted it up for inspection.

Milar chimed in with, “You said be ’specially quiet today so Papa can sleep after being up all night with Dannar, so we picked stairs where he wouldn’t hear us.”

Alasen bit her lip. The incident this winter had been explained with the excuse that, having been told not to disturb their papa’s peace, they had chosen to climb a chandelier in a chamber on the other side of the castle from his library.

Jeni added, “This was just a test, really. We could go much faster on the circle stairs.”

“I daresay you could.” Alasen bit her lip, then glanced around. No one had appeared in response to their gleeful shrieks, but that wasn’t surprising. Previous escapades had seen half a dozen servants successfully bribed beforehand. She wondered briefly what Milar, the more conniving of the pair, had thought up this time, then gave in and grinned down at her daughters. “Shall we go try it out?”

If Donato was shocked to encounter a Princess of Kierst and her daughters hurtling down a staircase in a serving bowl, he gave no sign. When they tumbled to a laughing halt two paces from him—with predictably disastrous consequences to the pillows piled there—he helped them up and brushed them off with perfect aplomb.