Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll (33 page)

C
astle Crag had not seen such splendor in more than forty-five years, not since Lallante had arrived to become Roelstra’s bride. Banners of all the important
athr’im
of Princemarch snapped in a breeze surging up from the gorge, and the golden dragon on blue was raised to signify that the High Prince himself would soon be in residence. An eager crowd lined the road for half a measure, four people deep. Flowers were strewn, people cheered themselves hoarse, and trumpets blared from the battlements as Rohan and Pol led the way into the courtyard.

Pol whispered to his father: “I feel like I’m about to be the main course at a banquet.”

Rohan laughed softly. “They’re hungry for a sight of you, hatchling, not a bite of you!”

Rohan had never before visited Princemarch and had resisted all suggestions that he do so. Although nominally it belonged to him, he had made it clear that Pandsala was Pol’s regent, not his, and that his son should be considered Princemarch’s ruler, not himself. Once the boy was knighted and had learned
faradhi
skills, he would take over here and rule it as an independent princedom until, at Rohan’s death, the Desert would also become his. Rohan hoped that years of thinking of Pol as their prince would make the transition smoother when it came time for Pol to govern.

This distinction was pointed up by Pandsala’s welcome. She came down the stairway, dressed in blue and violet, and her first bow was to Pol. He followed his father’s instructions, taking her hands, raising her from her knees, and bowing over her left hand where she wore the topaz and amethyst of her regency—along with Sunrunner’s rings. Only then did she turn to Rohan and bend her knees. Thus it was that in full view of the highborns and other dignitaries assembled in the courtyard, Pol’s place was openly acknowledged as being above Rohan’s. It was prettily done, and Rohan appreciated it.

Pol had never met Pandsala before, and found her something of a surprise. She did not look her forty-four winters, but was rather more like he recalled Lady Andrade: nearly ageless, anywhere from thirty to sixty. Her face had a sharp-boned, aristocratic handsome-ness that conveyed great dignity but little warmth, even when she smiled. In addition to the ring Rohan had given her as token of her charge, she wore five Sunrunner’s rings. Her eyes were cool brown, and silver waved from her temples through braids wound atop her head. Her welcome was delivered in a quiet, respectful voice, and everything was done with the ceremony due their rank—and she made Pol very uneasy. Certainly she was pleasant enough. He did not understand his reaction to her; perhaps it was the way she gazed at him, then looked away whenever he tried to meet her glance directly.

“I have messages for your grace from High Princess Sioned,” she told him while escorting him, Rohan, and Maarken upstairs to their chambers.

“You do?” Pol asked eagerly, only realizing at that moment how much he missed his mother. Then, because he didn’t want to show it, he added, “Have the dragons hatched yet?”

“Not for another ten days or so,” she replied, smiling a little. “Probably at about the time we leave for Waes.”

“I’m sorry we’ll be taking the long way this year, my lady,” Maarken apologized with a smile both rueful and charming. “Neither Pol nor I have your enviable ability to cross water without disgracing ourselves.”

“It’s of no consequence, Lord Maarken. I never much liked the sail down the Faolain anyway.” She turned to Rohan. “The High Princess is quite well, my lord, and begs that you will be on time to the
Rialla.
She has much information to share with you about the dragons.”

“She and Lady Feylin have discussed nothing else all summer,” he said, smiling. “That was a beautiful tapestry on the landing, Pandsala. Cunaxan?”

“Gribain, my lord, and new. I’ve been encouraging trade with them, as you suggested some years ago. They’ve improved since their first efforts.”

“Mmm. I think we saw a few at Rezeld Manor—clumsy, threadbare things that wouldn’t keep out a sneeze, let alone the winter winds they must get up in the mountains.” He glanced at Pol, his expression perfectly innocent, and the boy had a difficult time controlling his own. “I was impressed with Lord Morlen, however, and his inventory of livestock. You’ll have to fill me in about his quarry, too, while we’re here.”

“I’m pleased he’s done better in the last few years, my lord. He’s forever crying poverty.” She gestured to a servant who opened a large door of carved pine inlaid with shining black stone. “Lord Maarken, this is your suite. I hope it will be satisfactory.”

Maarken was self-possessed enough not to gape at the luxuries within. He merely nodded. “Thank you, my lady. I’m sure it’s entirely adequate to my needs. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll wash off the dirt of the road and attend you later.”

Pol did not have sufficient control of his eyes and jaw not to react when Pandsala herself opened the door of the suite he would share with his father. The first room was a gigantic reception chamber, bearing signs of recent redecoration, though not in the manner of Rezeld: here there were new hangings, fresh paint, cushions that had never been sat on, and the tart scent of citrus polish. Blue, violet, and gold were the dominant colors, sumptuous and slightly overwhelming.

The bedchambers were done in similar fashion. Smiling, Rohan watched Pol’s face, and when Pandsala had left them he said, “Well? What do you think?”

“It’s—it’s—”

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” He sank into a chair, relishing its comfort after so many days in the saddle.

“Father—she makes me a little nervous.”

“If she behaved a little stiffly, it’s because she’s anxious for everything to be perfect. Actually,
you
probably make
her
nervous, too.”

“Me?”

“Mm-hmm. I may have hired her on, but her real master is you—and she knows it.”

“But I don’t have any say in what goes on here!”

“Not
yet.
”

Pol digested this in silence, then jumped on the bed, landing with a bounce and a grin. “At least I have my own room and don’t have to listen to you snore!”

“I do
not
snore, you insolent—”

“Do so.”

“Do not!” Rohan tugged a pillow from behind his back and threw it. Pol responded with an overstuffed bedcushion. Rohan caught it and tossed it back at him. “Not again, or we’ll have feathers all over!”

“Dignity, dignity,” Pol said mournfully, shaking his head. “I have to behave myself, don’t I?” He fell onto his stomach, arms wrapped around the pillow. “Well, when I
do
come to live here, this stuff is going to go. I don’t care if princes have to live in state—I’d be afraid to take a bath in case I got the tub dirty! Did you see the size of that thing? You and Mother don’t live this way. Why did Pandsala do all this?”

“The whole place is the same, you know. And think for a moment about why she’d want to make this the most splendid suite in all Castle Crag. Don’t mistake her, Pol. She’s not showing off what she can do with money. Everything she does is for us. When she committed to us against her own father, she risked everything—including her life. There were plenty of people, Tobin and Andrade included, who told me I was out of my mind to make her regent here. She knows that, too.” He sighed quietly. “Her commitment is all she has. With her royal blood, she could never have been a traditional kind of Sunrunner, attached to a court somewhere. Can you honestly see a daughter of High Prince Roelstra as a court
faradhi?
And since Andrade never liked her much, returning to Goddess Keep was out of the question.”

“Mother wouldn’t have her at Stronghold, either,” Pol observed.

“Uneasiness around Pandsala isn’t an uncommon reaction,” he mused. “I can’t say that I’m all that fond of her, but I appreciate her and especially the work she’s done for us.” He paused a moment. “It gave her a life, Pol. She was trained for nothing in her youth except to be a princess, and then after her father’s death—” He shrugged.

“I heard Mother say once that ruling here is her revenge on her father.”

“Perhaps. But she also genuinely cares about you and about Princemarch. We’ve seen what the results have been.”

“Except that she never figured out about Lord Morlen!” Pol grinned, then sobered. “But I can’t help feeling funny around her.”

“As I said, she probably feels funny around you, too. Stop thinking so much!” he chided affectionately. “If I worried as much as you do, I’d be bald as a dragon’s egg. We’re supposed to be having a good time, you know.”

“I
was
—until we had to start getting dressed for dinner. Any chance that there won’t be a banquet tonight?”

“You can dream,” his father replied.

But the banquet was canceled only a short time before it was due to begin. Rohan was still draped in a bath towel when Maarken came to tell him the information Pandsala had just received on the last of the evening sunlight.

“Inoat of Ossetia and his son Jos went sailing today on Lake Kadar. They were due back well before sunset. But their boat washed up onshore, empty. Rohan—the bodies were found a little while ago. They’re both dead.”

He sat down on the ornate bed. “Another death—two deaths. Sweet Goddess. . . . Jos is a few winters younger than Pol.” He picked at the fringed hangings. “Chale must be devastated. He adored them both.”

Maarken nodded. “His only son and only grandson. I met Inoat once or twice—he visited at Goddess Keep while I was there. I liked him, Rohan. He would’ve made a fine prince.” He paused. “I’ve told Pandsala to cancel everything at once. I hope that wasn’t presumptuous.”

“No, not at all. Thank you for thinking of it. We’ll observe the ritual for them tonight. . . .” He trailed off and raked a hand back through his wet hair. “You know what all this means, don’t you? It may sound cold to be thinking politics right now, but—”

“You’re High Prince. You have to think politics.”

He smiled slightly. “You’re very like your father—good for my conscience in all ways. He’s soothing when I need it, and kicks me when it’s necessary. Promise you’ll always do the same for Pol.”

Maarken returned the smile. “I’m his the same way my father is yours.”

“And Ossetia will be Princess Gemma’s. Chale has no other heir.”

“Gemma? His cousin?”

“Niece. Her mother was Chale’s sister.”

Rohan saw Maarken look down at the first of his Sunrunner’s rings—a garnet that had belonged to Gemma’s older brother Jastri, Prince of Syr, who had died fighting on Roelstra’s side against the Desert.

“She’s suddenly become a very important young lady,” Maarken observed.

“And Waes will be overflowing with men trying to catch her eye.”

Maarken gave a start. “Not me!” he exclaimed.

“Have you someone else in mind?”

Blanching slightly, he hesitated and then shook his head. Rohan only smiled. Maarken returned to the main subject, a tactical maneuver not lost on his uncle. “Where’s Gemma now?”

“At High Kirat with Sioned’s brother Davvi. They’re all cousins through the Syrene royal house. Gemma’s still a Princess of Syr, of course, and technically Davvi’s ward.”

“She’ll need the High Prince’s consent to marry.”

“Yes. And what if she chooses someone I can’t stomach as the next Prince of Ossetia? Or even worse, what if the man she picks is unpalatable to Chale? He and I don’t agree on much.”

“If you interfere too much, you’ll be accused of trying to control Ossetia through Gemma.” Maarken made an annoyed gesture. “And there’s Firon! This on top of that isn’t going to make you very popular.”

“Watch the greedy High Prince gobble up land and power,” Rohan agreed bitterly. “We don’t need to explore this fully right now, Maarken. Is Pandsala competent at Moonrunning?”

“I’m not sure. She has five rings, and that makes her an apprentice—but I’m not sure how much training she had before she left Goddess Keep. I’ll ask.”

“Good. If she’s capable, then you two can divide up
faradhi
duties for me tonight. I need to get word to Davvi to put a guard on Gemma, if he hasn’t already done so. Pandsala can send our condolences to Chale, Regent to Prince. They’ll both appreciate that. You’ll have to contact Andrade. I don’t think she and Pandsala have exchanged a word in fifteen years. And Sioned will have to know all of it after you’ve finished with the rest.” Rising from the bed, he looked at the clothes laid out for him. “Have Pandsala arrange with her steward for gray mourning. Where is the ritual held here?”

“For the dead of other princedoms, the oratory.”

“Ah. I’d hoped to see it under more pleasant circumstances. I’m told it’s a marvel. Have I forgotten anything, Maarken?”

“Not that I can think of. Do you want me to send Pol in here to you?”

“Yes—do that. Thank you. Then go find Pandsala for me, and we’ll get started.” Brushing the hair from his eyes again, he said, “And remind me to tell Pol that under no circumstances is he to so much as
look
at Gemma unless he absolutely has to. The only thing I lack is a rumor that their marriage will give us Ossetia. Besides, she’s—what, ten winters older than he?”

“Boys grow up fast at nearly fifteen,” Maarken commented.

Rohan made a sour face. “I don’t think he realizes yet that girls exist.”

“Boys grow up fast at nearly fifteen,” Maarken repeated, and grinned.

 

The candles guttered in neat rows, the warm brilliance of their first burning faded to uncertain glimmers. Rohan stood before them, acutely aware of the darkness behind him. It was long past midnight, the ritual over. He had spoken to the assembled highborns and dignitaries here in the oratory, brief words about the loss suffered in the deaths of Inoat and Jos, fulfilling his obligation as High Prince. The candles had been placed along the back wall, and everyone had gone down to the dinner waiting for them. Rohan told himself he ought to be there, too, even if this was no longer an official ceremonial banquet, for he was hungry and Pol would want him near while everyone took his measure. But Pol had Maarken and Pandsala to see him through any rough patches, and Rohan wasn’t ready to join them just yet.