Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire (35 page)

“Do you want to try?” Milar offered. “It’s almost as good as the snow this winter.”

“Perhaps another time, my lady,” Donato replied courteously, plucking feathers from her pale brown hair.

Alasen recognized a certain look in the
faradhi
’s eyes and all the fun went out of the morning. “I think you’d better take this back now,” she told Jeni. “Your lessons are
supposed
to begin immediately after breakfast.”

“Mama!” both girls wailed.

“Do I have to call someone to escort you? Go on. Oh—and on your way find Iavol and tell him I’ll see him before noon. Hurry, now!”

They left dejectedly, the bowl dragged along between them. Donato watched them go, a fond smile on his face.

“Goddess help the men who try to tame them,” he murmured.

“Ostvel says we’ll have to find each a nice, calm, tolerant husband with an excellent sense of humor. But that’s many years ahead of us, and you didn’t come looking for me to discuss Jeni and Milar. What’s wrong?”

Donato touched her elbow. “In private, my lady.”

Really worried now by his request for privacy—for through the years Pandsala’s servants had been replaced by trusted people loyal only to Ostvel and Alasen—she stayed silent until they had climbed back up the circular stairs to the oratory. Thick, heavy fog formed another wall a finger’s breadth beyond the glass, blocking the view of the Faolain gorge below. Alasen seated herself on one of the chairs, folded her hands, and waited for Donato to speak.

“This fog came up quickly, didn’t it?” he said. “It was clear last night.”

“And what did you see on moonlight that you’ve been thinking about ever since?”

“My lady, I’ve been trying to puzzle something out all night. I waited to consult you, hoping the fog would lift and I could get a clearer look by sunlight, but—” He shrugged. “You know that I keep regular watch on all Princemarch’s holdings and take a look at the borders every so often as well.”

She nodded. Donato’s observations were occasionally very useful—for instance, when he caught Geir of Waes in a little smuggling off the coastline three years ago. Ostvel was bothered by what he thought of as spying, but Alasen quashed his doubts with the simple logic that people who had nothing to hide would never even know they had been seen.

“It may be nothing.” Donato shrugged uneasily and sat down across the aisle from her. “But—has Ostvel or his grace authorized any military exercises around Rezeld?”

“Ostvel has not,” she replied with total confidence. “I doubt if Prince Pol has, either. How many troops and horses are we discussing here?”

“The manor can stable twenty horses and could conceivably pack about a hundred extra people into the hall for sleeping.” He hesitated. “Alasen, camped in the fields nearby were at least three hundred, possibly more. I can’t think where they’d be keeping the horses—in the woods, perhaps. And if they’ve bows and spears, they’re as hidden as the horses. I won’t be sure until I can get a better look.”

“What about banners, colors of any kind?”

“None. I’m not familiar with how one prepares for war. We’ll have to ask Ostvel what else I should look for when I go back.”

Alasen frowned. “Who could Morlen be thinking of warring
against?
Surely not us. Castle Crag is impenetrable. And not Dragon’s Rest, either. That would be ludicrous. It would take twice three hundred soldiers and then some even to make the attempt. If there were brigands to be chased out of the mountains again, he’d apply to us for help while Pol’s at Stronghold—and to you as a Sunrunner, to let him know where they’re hiding.”

“It makes very little sense, my lady—unless Morlen has the assurance of more troops from someone.”

Alasen rose. “I’m going to talk to Ostvel about this. Donato, keep alert for any break in the fog. If it doesn’t clear by noon, then we’ll have to send you out in search of some usable sunlight.”

He contemplated the swirling gray outside the oratory wall. “I hope this really is fog up from the river and not a cloud hugging the ground. Otherwise I’d have to ride all the way to the top of Whitespur.”

Ostvel was fast asleep, snoring gently. Alasen paused a moment, urgent worry fading a little as the familiar tenderness crept through her. His dark hair was going gray and the lines carved on his face by twenty years in the Desert were deeper, but in slumber he looked nearly her own age. His sensitive mouth curved softly, its almost vulnerable lines belied by the strong bones of brow and nose and cheek bequeathed to their son. Not a beautiful face as masculine beauty was usually reckoned, but a face she had grown to love very much.

“Ostvel,” she whispered, brushing the hair from his forehead. “Dearest, I’m sorry to wake you, but we must talk.”

He grunted and rolled away from her touch. She shook his shoulder.

“Ostvel!”

“Go ’way,” he muttered, hunching into the quilts.

“What a welcome for your loving wife,” she chided. Climbing onto the bed, she knelt at his back and tickled his nape with one finger. “Come on, I know you’re awake.”

“If you were a loving wife, you’d let me sleep.” He flopped onto his back and glared up at her. “Better still, you’d teach our pest of a son some manners, so I could sleep nights like the honest, hardworking
athri
I am. Very well, I’m awake. What is it?”

She told him.

“Damn.” He flung back the quilt and strode to the dressing room. Alasen followed, demanding to know what he thought he was doing.

“We can’t wait for the fog to lift,” he explained as he pulled his warmest clothes from the closets. “Donato and I will have to ride up Whitespur now, as soon as possible.”

“But why? I know the activity at Rezeld is suspicious, but—”

“It fits in with a few other puzzling things I’ve noticed this last year.” His head disappeared for a moment beneath a thick knitted-wool shirt. “Why, for instance, Morlen has asked Pol to secure him a quantity of iron at the
Rialla
bargaining this year. He says he wants to reinforce Rezeld using the new techniques devised at Feruche and perfected at Dragon’s Rest—but how could he do that without tearing down his whole keep? My guess is that he’s going to need replacement iron for things he’s melted down to make spears and arrowtips for this little comedy.”

“Ostvel!”

“Hand me those other leggings, will you, my love? Moths have been at these. There’s something else. Chadric wrote of a curious circumstance in a letter recently. Someone contracted for a great deal of silk. It was a huge order and he filled it, of course, at a tidy profit. But once it reached Radzyn, it vanished before the shipping duties were paid.”

“Lord Chaynal never mentioned—”

“It would have shown up on the account books only at next New Year. I doubt he’s had the time or inclination to do his book-keeping recently.” Ostvel stamped his feet into his riding boots and reached for a heavy tunic. “Chadric thought the colors involved might interest me.”

Alasen frowned. “Not Rezeld’s colors.”

“Indeed not. Cunaxan orange. And Merida brown and yellow.”

She stared at him. He gave her a tight smile and bent to kiss her.

“Why would one need so vast a quantity of silk? Summer tunics, of course. For an army. Moreover, an army heading for the lower Desert. Cunaxan wool would kill them quicker than Desert swords.”

Alasen found her voice again. “Why didn’t you
tell
me this?”

“Because none of it fit before now.” He hesitated as he pulled on his gloves. “Even after nine years with you, I suppose I’m still in the habit of fretting on my own. Forgive me.”

She nodded, and that was the end of the issue. “Go have the horses saddled. I’ll find Donato and while he’s getting dressed I’ll have the kitchens put together a meal.”

Ostvel took her waist in his hands. “Have I told you recently—”

“That I’m wonderful?” She smiled. “Just bring yourself back in one piece, my lord, or I’ll have your teeth for tunic buttons.”

 

 

Ostvel had spent his early youth at Goddess Keep and his first wife had been
faradhi,
so he was as intimately familiar with the process of weaving sunlight as anyone not gifted could be. He knew what kind of light was needed, and how much, and for how long. So when Donato would have stopped halfway up Whitespur to risk a Sunrunning, Ostvel forbade it.

“That cloud over there would trap you before you’d gone past Castle Crag. Don’t be an idiot.”

“The more I think about all this, the more I want to hurry and the more nervous I get.”

“Which is precisely why you need a nice, strong fall of sunlight.”

Donato squinted at the snowfield ahead. “You’re going to make me ride through that muck, aren’t you?” He sighed and stroked the neck of the sturdy little mountain pony beneath him. “At least we’re not on those great fire-eaters Lord Chaynal gave you.”

The uncertain gray light muted the brilliance of the snowy peak rising up before him. What had been torrential winter rains in the lowlands had covered the Veresch in the heaviest snow within living memory. Castle Crag had become a glistening fantasy in ice, silent until the children had discovered that this strange frozen stuff they usually saw only on mountaintops was tremendous if chilly fun. But all was eerily quiet now, except for the crunch of broad hooves on snow and soft exhalations that sent clouds into the frosty air.

It was noon and they were nearly at the top of Whitespur before both Ostvel and Donato were satisfied with the sunshine. They refreshed themselves with a bite to eat and some wine, huddling beside their ponies for warmth. Then Donato faced east, toward Rezeld Manor.

Ostvel saw his eyes go blank, unfocused. How many hundreds of times had he watched a Sunrunner at work? Chances were that he himself possessed a glimmer of the gift; his elder son was a
faradhi
trained and skilled, and whereas eight years old was young to show the signs, last summer Jeni had flatly refused to join a sailing party on the Faolain. Ostvel was pleased that at least two of his children were gifted. He had always wondered what it might be like to weave light, to fly without dragon wings, to revel in the flush of power through body and heart and mind. But he had also seen what possession of the gift had done to Alasen, the pain and terror that had taken years to fade. And he had also seen Sionell’s anguish that her lack had rendered her an unsuitable match for Pol, even if he had ever noticed her as a woman. Ostvel had always honored and valued
faradhi
powers in his youth; ambivalence about them had crept slowly into his mind, beginning the night Sioned had almost killed Ianthe using those powers.

Donato stumbled suddenly against the pony’s shoulder. Ostvel steadied him, knowing better than to distract him with questions before he had fully returned. In a moment the Sunrunner had caught his breath. He chafed his gloved fingers, looking stunned.

“They’re all gone! It’s like nothing was ever there!”

“You mean they’ve marched.”

“I mean there’s no sign of the encampment I saw last night! No scars of cookfires on the ground, no hoofprints, no evidence.” He shook his head. “Ostvel, I saw what I saw last night.”

“Look again,” was the grim reply.

It took a few moments. Meeting Ostvel’s gaze again, he kneaded his laced fingers together to warm them. His voice was expressionless as he said, “Lord Morlen’s lady is in the courtyard with her daughter. They’re standing in front of a mirror combing their hair dry. The servant holding the mirror steady is Fironese. The little boy holding the hair ornaments is trying not to drop them—it’s all bloody
nothing!
” he spat. “What I saw last night is gone!”

Ostvel paced a few stiff step away in the snow. All at once he looked back over his shoulder. “Why are you rubbing your hands?”

“It’s cold.”

“Not that cold. What’s wrong with your hands, Donato?”

The Sunrunner pulled off one glove with his teeth. His fingers were shaking. “Sweet Goddess,” he whispered. “They feel burned.”

“Sorcery.” The word hissed in the white quiet of the mountainside. “You slammed right into it.
Faradh’im
work with sunlight by day—no need for this by night, not with all the clouds and the moons rising so short a time.” He kicked one booted foot into the snow. “But there’s sun over Rezeld today.”

“It’s impossible. They couldn’t hide a whole army—”

“Then perhaps you were only dreaming last night,” Ostvel growled, knowing very well Donato had not. “How do we know what they can and can’t do? Andry himself admits that Lady Merisel didn’t tell everything she knew in the scrolls. The point is, we’ve got to get word to Rohan. From Rezeld to Dragon’s Rest—”

Donato interrupted. “Pol is his own Sunrunner. He’s at Stronghold. There’s nobody at Dragon’s Rest to warn.”

“They’ll have to send a messenger through the mountains, then. And a small troop with him to see that the news gets there. Contact Sioned at once.”

While Donato obeyed, Ostvel paced. He could not imagine life without
faradh’im,
but in the end they were useless against those who understood their limitations.

Donato was pale and drawn by the time he returned from Stronghold. But he was also angry. “I couldn’t find her. Andry was the one who answered. He said she’s otherwise occupied. But I told him everything.” His lips twisted. “He assured me he’ll inform Sioned—but I know he didn’t believe a word.”

Ostvel nodded slowly. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” Donato was one of the old guard, like Morwenna, who had chosen service elsewhere rather than continue residence at Goddess Keep and watch
faradhi
traditions shatter. It was no secret that Andry wanted his own representatives at all courts. Several years ago he’d sent a young woman to be Donato’s second; though pleasant in her person and quite skilled, she was so obviously loyal to Andry that Ostvel had wasted no time in packing her back to Goddess Keep with a polite but firm refusal of the offer. The episode had insulted Donato, irritated Ostvel, mortified the rejected Sunrunner, and infuriated Andry.