Dragon Prince 03 - Sunrunner's Fire (5 page)

So Sioned was probably safe in her deception. Goddess knew, she had paid dearly for it. Ianthe’s sniggering reference to multiple rapes had knifed through his heart, and with more than the anguish of knowing proud Sioned had been used thus. For to her, none of it had ever happened. She had never said a word about what had been done to her at Feruche; Ostvel had learned of it from Rohan. Neither did she ever speak of that summer and autumn of waiting, or of the night Feruche had burned. None of it existed for her. Sometimes he wondered if she even had a clear memory of that time. He truly believed she had gone a little mad that year. He knew from experience that agony and terror and grief must be cleansed from the heart. Sioned’s wounds were still open and bleeding. Ostvel had known her since childhood; she could hide very little from him.

He twisted the small carving of gilded elk-hoof that fit cunningly into the wood paneling. Myrdal had noted that other secret rooms, doors, and passages were opened with a similar carving that depicted a rising star. Ostvel found it intriguing that Pol’s name was the key to Castle Crag’s secrets, and eerie that Ianthe had written words calling him what Sioned had Named him. And, strangest of all, the same stars provided the light used by
diarmadh’im.

The word meant “Stoneburners” and came from the manner in which rock cairns glowed during certain ritual sorceries. Urival shared odd bits of Star Scroll knowledge with Sioned on sunlight, and she passed on some of them to Donato, Ostvel’s court Sunrunner and a friend of their youth. Stars were everywhere these days, it seemed: used in sorcery, Pol’s name, indicating Castle Crag’s secrets—could the place have been built by these
diarmadh’im
?

Ostvel stretched the weariness from his shoulders, reminded by various impudent aches that this would be his forty-eighth winter. A smile formed as he reflected on where those winters had taken him—from obscure retainer at Goddess Keep to Regent of Princemarch. He had a grown son who was
faradhi
and lord of his own keep, and an infant daughter whose mother was a princess, and—

He gasped. It was two years ago today that he had married that princess. He barely remembered to lock the library door before sprinting to his suite. A frantic search in his wardrobe had him cursing. He’d had the ring made, he
knew
he had. Alasen had given him his ring last year; by Kierstian tradition, the partner superior in rank had a second year to decide about continuing the marriage. But this year he could claim her and—
where
was that damned ring?

Finding it at last, he sat back on his heels and sighed his relief—and toppled over in startlement as he heard Alasen laughing softly behind him.

“I was beginning to wonder,” she said, smiling, “if you were expecting me to divorce you. After all, that ring is the only one I ever really wanted.”

“S
o you’ll be off to Feruche in the morning?” Riyan asked as he and Sorin mounted the steps to the central hall.

“Why don’t you come with me for a few days? I could use your advice. My little army of architects have battled each other until I’ve forgotten what I originally wanted to do with the place!” Sorin winced. “It took a whole year to clean out the ruins and make sure what was left wouldn’t collapse. Then we had to sort out the usable stone and set it aside for when we needed it. And then another year before the new foundation was set.”

“But you
have
started to build?”

“At last—and if you can call it that. Miyon hasn’t been exactly eager to pay up his bet to Aunt Sioned.”

Riyan sighed involuntarily with relief as they entered the cool dimness of the foyer. A mere fifteen measures away in the Veresch Mountains, autumn had already brought crisp days and chilly nights. But here in the Desert it was still stiflingly hot, even at nearly sunset.

Sorin continued his good-natured complaints. “He stalled on delivering the iron last winter and again in spring. And all this time we’ve been living in excruciatingly close quarters in the old barracks below the castle. I’ve lost track of how many fights I’ve broken up over what tower goes where, which windows should face what direction, and how many rooms there should be. Do you know we’re still arguing over whether it’s to be a defensive keep or not?”

“Considering the proximity of Cunaxa, the thicker the walls, the better.”

“Granted. But building a warrior’s castle isn’t my idea of fun, and it would be a direct challenge to Miyon and his Merida allies to come and try to tear it down.”

“What does Rohan say about it?”

“He grins and tells me to let the Cunaxans watch and fume while my new keep is built with their iron. But they’re more likely to be laughing. Goddess! You don’t know the half of it. Bracing up the old dungeons was a nightmare.”

Riyan chuckled at his friend’s tribulations. “I heard that out of the kindness of his heart, Miyon sent down his best smiths to work the iron.”

“And I packed them all back to Cunaxa,” Sorin replied vigorously. “It seems their mission was to build me a castle whose underpinnings would make it tilt like a drunken merchant. Before it fell down altogether, that is!”

The two young men washed their hands and faces in a large stone bowl set into a wall embrasure and accepted towels from a waiting servant. Then they checked their relative tidiness in a mirror on a nearby wall. Sorin paused to run careful fingers over the delicate frame, carved with intertwined leaves and apples.

“It’s beautiful. As if dark liquid gold was washed over it.”

“It was my mother’s,” Riyan said. “She never lived at Skybowl, but lots of her things are here. Father brought them from Stronghold when Rohan gave him this castle.”

“I remember her a little, I think.”

“I wish I remembered her more.” Then, more easily, he continued, “Well, we’re as clean as we’ll get without baths. Can’t do anything about the horse-stink, but I trust we won’t offend the ladies.”

“Alasen won’t mind and Feylin never notices—and Sionell’s probably as dirty as we are.”

“Now, now! She’s growing up!” Riyan grinned as he gestured to a guard to open the doors to the main hall.

“Mmm. Pol’s doing the same at Graypearl, I’m told. Your father had a long talk with Chadric at the
Rialla,
and Sionell’s not been shy about demanding every detail!”

Riyan spotted Sionell immediately. She sat by Alasen at the high table, playing with his half-sister, Camigwen. Small Jeni was two years old, with Ostvel’s dark hair and gray eyes, but in feature was exactly like her mother. That Alasen had Named her first child after Riyan’s mother was an indication of the serenity of her marriage; Riyan didn’t know many women who would pay gentle tribute to a beloved first wife.

During the winter of 719, when they had lived at Skybowl while Castle Crag was being readied for them, Riyan had had ample opportunity to talk with his father’s new wife. Alasen had never insulted him by sitting him down to an oh-so-sincere little chat; neither had she made the mistake of trying too hard to take on the role of stepmother. That would have been ludicrous, as she was only three winters older than he. Instead, she had merely been herself: witty, intelligent, kind, and very much in love with his father.

Any awkwardness had been Ostvel’s. Riyan smiled as he took his chair at the high table, remembering his father’s bemused happiness—and the inevitable embarrassment that came to a man who, after eighteen years, took a second wife fully half his age. Alasen’s one comment to Riyan about it had been, “I do wish he’d stop being so silly. It’s as if he expects to descend into doddering decrepitude any moment.” Impending fatherhood, casually mentioned by Alasen early that winter, had reduced Ostvel to stunned speechlessness and a foolish grin that had not left his face for days.

“The horses you bought from Chay must be coming along well,” Alasen observed as Riyan sat beside her. “You’re looking very happy.”

“They are, and I am. But I was thinking about the night you told us you were carrying Jeni.”

She took the baby from Sionell and laughed.

“Why?” Sionell asked. “What happened?”

Riyan glanced down the table. His father, Walvis, and Feylin were deep in discussion with Sorin about Feruche; they would not overhear. “Well, he—”

“Riyan!” Alasen scolded, and held her daughter high in the air to make her giggle. “Consider your father’s dignity.”

“
He
didn’t have any mind for it that night!” Riyan reached over and tickled Jeni’s chin. “Someday I’ll tell you the story, little one. When you can appreciate it.”

“But what
happened?
” Sionell insisted.

“He was pouring wine for Alasen when she just up and announced it, and he kept on pouring, and pouring, and—”

“All over my best dress!” Alasen finished. “Not to mention Skybowl’s best table silk, and the best Giladan rug, and—”

“And himself, I’ll bet,” Sionell supplied, grinning. “How did he react when he found out about
you,
Riyan?”

Alasen winked at her. “I’m reliably informed that his knees collapsed and he fell into one of Princess Milar’s little chairs so hard he splintered the poor thing. Sioned’s been trying to get him to pay for it for years.”

“So
that’s
why she teases him about it!” Riyan hadn’t known that story.

“I wonder what happened when Prince Rohan learned about Pol,” Sionell mused.

Alasen winked again, this time at Riyan so Sionell couldn’t see. “You’ll have to ask Sioned. Is Jahnavi going to serve us our dinner, or is he still primping in his new Skybowl tunic?”

Sionell jumped to her feet. “I’ll go see what’s keeping him.”

“Take Jeni with you. Her nurse will be waiting for her.”

When Sionell had hoisted the child into her arms and left them, Riyan shook his head. “She’s not subtle, is she?”

“About Pol? No. But then, she’s only fourteen. Wait a few more years and she’ll have acquired all the arts. She’s going to be pretty enough to get plenty of chances to use them, too!”

“I hope she doesn’t. There’s something very charming about her directness. I’d hate to see her become one of those simpering, idiots who plague the
Rialla.
”

She nodded, green eyes dancing. “A plague I notice you avoided quite nicely this year by not attending.”

He groaned softly. “Alasen,
please
don’t try to marry me off!”

“Not at all. Your father and I are much too young to be grandparents.”

Jahnavi appeared then from the side door to the kitchens, trying not to stagger under the weight of a huge white tureen made of Kierstian ceramic. The boy presented the dish for approval, bowed when Riyan nodded permission to serve, and hefted it onto the table. Silver ladle and blue ceramic bowls were waiting; Riyan watched critically as Jahnavi portioned out the soup without spilling a drop. Sionell had returned to her seat next to Alasen, holding her breath as her little brother performed his first duties as Riyan’s new squire. She sighed her relief when he finished without incident, bowed, and returned to the kitchen for bread.

“Very nice,” Riyan commented so Sionell could hear. “A little lacking in polish, but done very smoothly just the same.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the girl replied formally. But then her irrepressible spirits made her grin. “He was so nervous! You were a squire at Swalekeep, and everybody knows what a stickler old Prince Clutha is for decorum!”

“A stick across my backside once when I spilled a tray of pastries,” Riyan reminisced. “But I doubt any such remedies will be necessary with Jahnavi. I was such a clumsy little mess!”

He did not mention that at eleven years old, Jahnavi had not yet entered into the tortures of puberty, with all its insecurities of abruptly long limbs, distressingly large feet, and humiliatingly uncertain voice. It was foolish to punish an adolescent for what he could not help. Riyan was determined to be more understanding than Clutha, who had been of the old school when it came to training his squires. Jahnavi was Riyan’s first foray into such training. Walvis and Feylin had entrusted him with their only son, and he resolved to justify their faith in him. He knew there would not be many young highborn boys given into his care; Skybowl was a small, remote keep, and he was only a minor
athri.
Both he and his holding were insignificant as far as the rest of the princedoms were concerned. But others’ perceptions troubled him not at all, for Skybowl was vital to the Desert in a way no one had ever guessed.

There was nothing here that would indicate Skybowl’s importance. The hall was a third the size of the one at Stronghold, and much less grandly decorated. The people were well-dressed and well-fed, but sat at trestle tables on benches instead of in individual chairs. Early evening sun shone through windows paned in clear glass, not the colored Fironese crystal of more fashionable keeps. High on the walls were torch sconces rather than the branches of white candles Rohan had made popular at Stronghold, and the sconces were made of plain bronze not silver or gold. Those at Skybowl lived in comfort but not luxury, and nowhere was there any indication of the wealth of dragon gold taken from nearby caves and cached in the lowest levels of the keep.

Jahnavi made swift, efficient work of the bread, then poured out wine and stood at the end of the high table, alert to the needs of those seated there. His parents treated him as they would any other squire; no one teased him or attempted to engage him in conversation. Everyone knew how important this first duty at table was to him. But not even his solemn dedication to his new status could survive when Alasen made her announcement.

It came about when Sionell leaned slightly forward and asked, “Lord Ostvel, we’ve been talking about how men react when their wives tell them they’re going to be fathers. How did Prince Rohan take the news about Pol?”