Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire (46 page)

Someday Pol would find out. Ostvel had argued for revealing the truth while he was still young enough to be flexible, to understand in a child’s terms:
“We wanted you and loved you too much to let her keep you from us.”
But it was too late for the simple love that would have eased a little boy’s understanding and acceptance. Pol was a grown man now. The reassurance of being loved and wanted more by Rohan and Sioned than by Ianthe would not be enough. He would see politics and power, be shocked by the years of deceit, feel betrayed unto his soul.

He should have been told long ago. But somehow Ostvel could not help wishing that his own part would never be discovered. Pol would eventually forgive his parents and Tobin. Ostvel doubted he would forgive his mother’s executioner.

A murmuring among the waiting troops took him gratefully from his thoughts. He looked toward the narrows and concentrated. There—a faint yellowish glow, the distinctive pale gold of Sunrunner’s Fire.

“Ha! There it is! Too early and the wrong direction for sunup,” Laroshin whispered smugly.

Ostvel nodded, watching in fascination as the radiance slowly intensified. And there were sounds now, shouts barely heard on the night breeze, distant hoofbeats. He shifted his grip on the sword and told himself that young son or no young son, his thrust with this kind of blade wasn’t what it had been. He would be fifty-five this summer, not twenty. He’d keep well to the rear of the battle, knowing that Alasen would skin him alive if he came home with so much as a scratch. He didn’t want to think about what would happen if he didn’t come home at all.

Stampeding horses and mountain ponies had entered the narrows; the thunder of their passing echoed off the rock walls. Ostvel jumped as the swiftest burst into the valley and his Radzyn stallion snorted at this invasion of his home turf. Laroshin signaled his soldiers to hold. They’d wait until the army itself came running through, chased by Fire and arrows. But it was a long, tense wait and Ostvel felt the muscles knotting in his shoulders.

The runaway horses galloped past. They probably wouldn’t stop until they reached the lake at the top of the valley. As their hoofbeats pounded into the distance, there was a period of almost-quiet, punctuated by the cries of arrow-shot men and women. From the echo, they, too, had reached the narrows.

“Hold, hold,” Laroshin breathed. “Wait till they’re in position.”

The first enemy troops staggered into the valley, followed by scores of others as arrows and Fire pushed them into the trap.

“Hold,” came the low-voiced order. “Not long now. Look at that, we can herd them like stray lambs!”

“I never saw a lamb that brought its own sword along to the slaughter,” Chandar muttered.

Many of the fleeing soldiers indeed carried weapons. That they had snatched up swords even in their panic spoke well for their training. Ancient years though he had claimed for himself earlier, Ostvel’s blood heated at the prospect of a fight. Bred to war, the horse beneath him stirred and quivered, eagerly catching his excitement.

No longer harried by arrows, a knot of invaders paused to regroup. One of them shouted for the rest to gather around her. About a hundred scattered troops assumed formation and started warily forward.

“Damn,” Laroshin growled. “If she inspires them to disciplined battle, the rest will join as they arrive.” He lifted one arm to signal imminent attack.

But the Meadowlord soldiers abruptly stopped cold. They broke ranks and fled shrieking to collide headlong with the main army now pouring from the narrows. The defenders watched in stark amazement as waves of people pushed forward by arrows and Fire and panic struck some invisible barrier and fell back screaming in horror.

“What in all Hells—?” Ostvel forgot his self-imposed strictures about staying to the rear and urged his horse down the slope. Chandar swore and followed, and then Laroshin and the rest of the troops. But it was not a charge into battle Ostvel led. There would be no blood shed tonight.

He rode closer and closer, gaping at the spectacle. He ignored Chandar’s plea to ride back to safety. He was as safe here as in his own bed at Castle Crag. The rush forward and terrified ebb backward fascinated him. It was as if men and women were being flung against a great glass wall that nothing could break through.

Trapped between the assault behind and the eerie barrier ahead, the army of Meadowlord collapsed in on itself like a castle with its support beams torn out. The defenders of Dragon’s Rest had nothing to do but watch.

“The High Princess’ work?” Laroshin asked.

“I don’t know. Perhaps.” He glanced upward. No moons; only stars to work with. Stars that were a
diarmadhi’s
source of power and light.

S
unrise heralded a new spring day, warm and glowing and perfect. Andry was exhausted by the night’s work, but was damned if he’d show it, especially not to those gathered in the Summer Room. None of them had slept; all of them looked grim.

“You let it happen!” Pol was saying furiously. “You
knew
Dragon’s Rest would be attacked, and you let it happen!”

Andry shrugged. “And what could you have done from here? Pol, we’ve been over this at least ten times.”

Oclel, seated at his side and silent until now, said, “My Lord is correct, your grace. There was no time to send troops from Stronghold. The only hope of discouraging the attack was through
devri
means.”

Sioned, opposite Andry with Chay and Tobin flanking her, lifted her gaze from contemplation of her hands. “Let us talk about your means,” she suggested quietly.

“You saw. You were part of it—though I didn’t mean for you to be caught up in the weaving. Nor you, Pol.”

The young man stood beside his father’s chair, glowering. “I’d like to hear your explanation. You learned this from the scrolls, of course.”

“Of course. It’s a subtle variation on certain Sunrunner techniques.”

“Subtle?” Pol burst out. “You grabbed onto every
faradhi
mind in range and forced us to participate in Goddess knows what? That’s your notion of subtlety? A thing so powerful that it turned scores of people into babbling half-wits?”

“A consequence of strength on the weak-minded. I don’t understand why you’re arguing the methods, Pol. They contacted the barrier and what they saw there has temporarily—”

“It had damned well better be temporary,” Pol snapped.

“And what about your soldiers’ arrows and swords? How temporary is death? My way, they’re alive and will probably recover.”

“Probably.” Sioned let the word fall into a heavy silence.

Andry shrugged again, annoyed. He’d saved Dragon’s Rest, and now they were quarreling over the outcome. But what else should he have expected? he asked himself sourly. “Normal ways of defense wouldn’t have worked. My way was the only way. Fewer died, the invaders were so frightened that no one will ever approach Dragon’s Rest again, and they were all very neatly trapped. I understand Ostvel will be conducting interrogations today. I’ll be very interested in how Chiana explains herself—not to mention Geir of Waes. Oh, and your own vassal, Lord Morlen, who caused the army to be assembled within Princemarch itself.”

Pol stiffened at the veiled insult, but his voice was silken as he replied, “I’m more interested in why so many plots and so much sorcery went undetected, even though regular observations are conducted from Goddess Keep.”

Andry narrowed his gaze, hating Pol just as much as Pol hated him. “You seem to be calling me a spy—and an incompetent one at that. It also sounds as if you’d prefer to see your palace gutted rather than accept help from a Sunrunner.”

Chay intervened before they could start shouting at each other. “I think we all simply want to know what was done and why, Andry.”

“I told you, Father. It’s an old technique used by Lady Merisel in battle against the
diarmadh’im
long ago. It worked for her—and it’s worked for me, Goddess be thanked.”

“The idea, my lord,” Nialdan said in respectful tones, “is that—”

“I want to hear it from my son.” The quicksilver gaze never left Andry’s.

He’d thought the time long past when his sire could make him feel twelve winters old again. He kept resentment from his voice as he answered, “There are fears in everyone. This particular weaving is constructed to provide a mirror. It’s not unlike what I did to Marron. Only that reflected his own spell back at him. With the technique I used last night, visions of fear, no matter how deeply hidden in the mind, are reflected at the one who encounters the barrier. The formal name for it is
ros’salath,
the warrior’s wall of dreams.”

“Nightmares,” Pol corrected sharply.

“Andry. . . .” Tobin’s eyes looked tortured. “I saw what happened. You and Nialdan and Oclel caught me up in it, too. But I don’t understand why you could do this thing so readily.”

“I’m sure you knew about it before now, Mother. Even if Maarken and Hollis said nothing, Pol has his spies, too.”

Pol forced himself to stand immobile. He ached to smash that sarcastic half-smile off Andry’s face, but willed his body to absolute stillness. There would be other, more satisfying, ways of revenge. He told himself to be patient.

Rohan had been silent this whole time. Now he got to his feet, and Pol watched with his usual awe—and a little envy—as his father effortlessly commanded all eyes.
How does he
do
that?
Pol marveled. Analyzing the sheer force of his father’s presence, Pol realized it came mostly from the way he held himself—straight, proud without arrogance—and from his eyes: clear, watchful without wariness, giving away nothing. This was a man one could not impress with wealth or power or blandishments, only with qualities of mind and character. At times like this his power was an almost visible thing. Whether one was his enemy or his ally, this man’s respect was a thing to be coveted.

Pol could hear power, too, in the quiet authority of Rohan’s voice as he said, “We all knew. What we don’t know is why. You learned well from Andrade. She would no more have explained herself than you intend to do right now. But consider this, Andry. What you do as a Sunrunner and what I do as High Prince are interconnected things. What each of us does reflects back at the other—much like your nightmare weaving. Your murder of Marron last night—”

“It was justice,” Andry said coldly.

“It was murder. It made a mockery of justice. Worse, it broke the vow you made never to kill using your gift.”

Andry’s eyes widened and he gave a startled laugh. “You can’t possibly think you’re going to punish me for it!”

“Murder does not go unpunished in this princedom. Use of power does not go unnoticed. We choose now to use our own.”

The royal plural stunned Andry. “He killed Sorin! He deserved to die! Who had a better right to do it than—”

Rohan paid no heed to the outburst and continued implacably, “We do not harbor murderers in our princedom. You have three days to remove yourself from our lands. Set foot here again on pain of arrest and trial for murder.”

Andry’s face went death pale. But there was more.

“Further, whatever princedom we see fit to inhabit for whatever amount of time, we forbid you to be present in that princedom. We lift this restriction for the
Rialla
every three years, and for two days preceding and following.”

“You have no right—”

Rohan’s temper flared at last. “We have every right! Be grateful we don’t order you confined to Goddess Keep!”

Surging to his feet, Andry challenged, “And how would you go about it?”

“This
ros’salath
of yours might prevent us from entering—but we could also prevent you from leaving. Further—”

“How dare you?” he cried. “I refuse to be sentenced for a crime that was no crime, by someone who has no authority—”

“Further,” Rohan repeated, “any use of the thing you term
ros’salath
for other than direct defense of Goddess Keep is forbidden for as long as we are High Prince. You deemed it necessary to learn, necessary to teach, and now necessary to use. Whatever the reason, consider your motives carefully. Rest assured that we will do the same.” He stared Andry down. “Your grandfather said once that the promises of a prince die with him. When Pol rules here, he may decide as he pleases about these things. But while we live, Lord Andry—”

“You have no right!”

“We have every right,” Rohan said again. “Or had you forgotten that tradition states and ancient scrolls confirm that
faradh’im
hold Goddess Keep of the High Prince? How long, do you think, would it take for us to make good a revocation of that gift?”

Andry gasped.

“You’ve not inspired trust among the princes,” Rohan observed coldly. “Or even your own senior Sunrunners.”

The struggle for control made a battlefield of Andry’s features. He mastered himself and turned to Pol. “You think yourself well-educated in the scroll Urival stole for you, don’t you? You think you can defend yourself from what will come when—when the princes have had enough of a Sunrunner High Prince. Think again, cousin!”

Pol didn’t much care what Andry thought or believed; he was railing against the consequences of his father’s lack of action. Why hadn’t something been done before now? he cried inwardly. Why did it have to come to this?

Rohan spoke again. “We strongly suggest you accept your punishment, my Lord. It is mild indeed, compared to that which we might have chosen.”

Andry appealed to his parents. “You can’t let this happen!”

“
You
let it happen,” Chay told him gravely, his face twisted by grief.

“Mother!”

Tears ran down Tobin’s cheeks. “Andry—don’t you see? You left no other choice.”

He turned to Maarken, beloved eldest brother, only brother now. There was no succor there either, and equal grief. Andry’s expression hardened as he turned to Rohan again.