Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll (38 page)

“Sunrunner you may be, and nearly a knight—but this isn’t work for you. Do I have to number my rings and quote the authority they give me?”

“No, but—”

“So do as you’re told. You’d better get started. It’s a long walk.” Kleve softened the command with an affectionate nudge. “I’ll tell you the whole thing tomorrow.”

“You’d better,” Riyan muttered.

 

Andry could not sleep. He almost went to Hollis’ room to ask her to work the spell she’d been learning from Urival, but basic decency demanded he let her rest. With or without Sejast’s witch’s brew, she had been exhausted recently. He shook his head as he pulled on his clothes, glad he’d grown up in sophisticated places where witches and the like were tales to entertain children.

And yet—he was brought up short on the stairs as a thought hit him. Some of the things in the Star Scroll could definitely be considered witchcraft. Its very title was evocative:
On Sorceries.
What if Sejast really had run into one of the old folk? He was more inclined to think the boy had encountered a sage who knew odd herbal remedies, rather than a sorceress of the old ways. But someone had been watching the night Meath had delivered the scrolls—watching not on sun or moons, but the faint thin glow of stars. Andry continued down the stairs, shivering slightly, and resolved to find out more from Sejast about his witch.

He made his way to the library wing through the silent halls of the keep. He was nearly at the locked door of the chamber where the scrolls were kept when he realized Hollis had the key. So much for spending the night in soothing research, Andry thought ruefully, and wondered what else might ease his restlessness. A brisk walk around the gardens? Perhaps he could visit the stables to check on his horse. Maycenel had been sadly neglected while he worked on the scrolls, and he felt guilty about it. His father had given him the young stallion when he had become Prince Davvi’s squire—a mount fit for the knight Andry would never become. Sorin had been gifted with Maycenel’s twin brother on his departure for Prince Volog’s court that same year—a nice piece of work, twins for twins. But Sorin had put his Joscenel to the use their father had intended, and would be knighted this year. Andry wondered suddenly if Chay was terribly disappointed that he had not done the same. And, if he was, whether he would ever show it.

The courtyard was empty but for cats on the hunt. Andry crossed the flagstones to the stables, expecting to hear only the drowsy sounds of horses in their stalls. The clink of a bridle startled him. He followed the sound to the far end of the building, stepping noiselessly on fresh straw.

“Hollis!” he blurted, unable to prevent the exclamation when he saw her long tawny hair. “What are you doing here?”

She whirled and dropped the bridle in her hands. A saddle was propped in the straw near a fleet little mare that had been his father’s gift to Andrade a few years ago; old as she was, the Lady of Goddess Keep could still appreciate a fast ride on a good horse. Hollis stared for a moment, then bent to retrieve the bridle. The metal clanked with the shaking of her fingers.

“I just—I thought I’d go riding—”

“At this time of night? Have you slept at all?”

She shrugged, back to him as she fitted the leather straps over the mare’s head. Andry leaned his elbows on the half-door of the stall and frowned. Hollis loved horses and riding—she would hardly have been a suitable wife for the next Lord of Radzyn Keep if she had not—but this was more than a little strange.

“Want some company?” he finally asked, a deliberately casual offer.

She shook her head violently, untidy golden braids whipping around her shoulders. Her fingers were wound in the mare’s black mane, and her body began to shake. Andry’s jaw dropped when he heard a tiny sob claw up from her throat. He hauled open the door and went to her, patting her back awkwardly, wishing Maarken were here to comfort her.
He
must be the reason she wept, Andry told himself.

When she stopped crying, she faced him and attempted a smile. “I’m sorry. I’m not usually so silly.”

“You don’t have to worry about the
Rialla,
you know,” he said, trying to explore his surmise about Maarken. “My parents will love you, just as Maarken does.”

She blinked, and he realized that his brother was the farthest thing from her mind. She didn’t even bother to cover the reaction, and that startled him even more.

“You’re tired,” he went on, floundering for excuses to explain her behavior. “You haven’t gotten any sleep. Go back upstairs, Hollis.”

She nodded feebly. Andry took the bridle from the mare’s head, hung it on a nail, and heaved the saddle back up onto its stand. When he turned, Hollis was gone.

He caught up with her in the courtyard and touched her arm. She gave a little cry and started away from him.

“Oh! Don’t sneak up on people! What are you doing out this time of night?”

It was as if the moments in the stables had never occurred. He could find nothing in her face or her eyes to indicate she was not seeing him for the first time that night. “I couldn’t sleep. I went to the library to work on the scrolls, but you’ve got the key.”

“It’s up in my room.” She cast a glance back over her shoulder at the stables, almost desperately.

“I know,” he said, more mystified than ever at her strangeness. “I’ll just go back to bed and pretend I can sleep.”

“Maybe a book would help,” she suggested, sounding more like herself. “I know several guaranteed to have you snoring in two pages.” She laughed, but there was a wildness to the sound that canceled any relief he might have felt at the return of her sense of humor. She was fey and skittish as an untamed filly—not at all the sensible, practical Hollis he knew.

 

Kleve slid up to a window, hoping Riyan would do exactly as told. Bother the boy, anyhow—and bother Andrade, for setting Riyan to do what Kleve was perfectly capable of doing all on his own. Still, he had to admit that the young man’s presence had been useful tonight. He would never have found Kiele if not for Riyan.

He moved around the side of the house, trying to find a partially open window that would allow him to hear what was being said inside—and nearly got hit in the face by a window suddenly flung wide. He flattened himself against the wall, clamping his teeth shut over an exclamation of surprise, and froze until the curtains dropped again to guard the light inside.

“It’s an oven in here, damn it! Hotter than the Desert in high summer!” a man’s voice grated. “If I have to try these damned clothes on, then at least save yourself the trouble of washing my sweat from them afterward!”

“You have absolutely no sense of caution! I’m sure I wasn’t followed, but if you think we’re safe, then think again!”

“Shut up, Kiele!”

“How dare you give me orders! And whatever possessed you to come into the city today? Of all the stupid, foolish things—!”

“I was bored! You’ve kept me out here for longer than I can remember! And no harm came of it—who’d recognize me?”

“Someone recognizing you is exactly the point!”

“If my former jailer hadn’t been out drinking, no one would have been the wiser. But no, he had to be half-drunk and, of course, he
had
to run to you and tattle!”

There was the sound of something, a chair perhaps, crashing to the floor. Kiele gave a little cry and then a curse, and the man laughed.

“Calm yourself. You came here to lecture me, and I’m not interested. Let’s get on with the clothing, shall we?”

“You’ll learn to keep your mouth shut and do exactly as I say—or you’ll ruin us all, Masul!”

When he spoke again, his voice was savage. “I’m sick of being caged, and I’m sick of you telling me what I should and shouldn’t do, and most especially I’m sick of your doubts! When are you going to admit that I am who I say I am, sister
darling?
”

Kleve dug his fingers into the weathered wood of the house as his knees wobbled with sudden shock.

“Try on the tunic,” Kiele said with the inexorable ice of a mountain glacier.

Kleve shifted so he could peer through the tiny gap in the black curtains. His muscles creaked a protest at the awkward stance necessary to avoid rustling a flowering bush, but his reward was a view of Masul’s head poking through the neck of an elegant dark violet velvet tunic.

Once, a very long time ago, Kleve had traveled to Einar on Andrade’s business. Midjourney, he had nearly been trampled on the road by a group of highborns out for a day’s hunting. No apology had been offered; indeed, their young leader had told him to get his filthy Sunrunner carcass out of the way or regret it. Laughing, they had ridden on. It had been Kleve’s distinct pleasure to follow them in secret and scare off a prime stag by calling up a judicious gust of wind across its hindquarters. He’d amused Andrade with the story on his return to Goddess Keep. Her satisfaction had been all the greater when he had conjured the leader’s face in the fire. She had identified him instantly.

The face he saw now—green-eyed, high-boned, sensuous, sullenly handsome—would be, without the beard, nearly the living image of that arrogant youth, High Prince Roelstra.

He slid down the wall to the grassy ground, stunned. So the rumors were true, and his suspicions justified. The pretender existed and Kiele was sheltering him. She had probably coached him in her father’s mannerisms and the like, rehearsing him for an appearance at the
Rialla.
And Chiana was at the residence in Waes—Kleve understood that very well. Kiele’s delight in Chiana’s humiliation would be the final spice in the taze. The Father of Storms himself could not have created the uproar this Masul would cause, with Kiele’s help.

He could still hear voices from within the house, but paid them little mind. Masul was trying on clothes, half a dozen garments designed to make him look as regal and as much like Roelstra as possible. Kleve leaned his head back and squeezed his eyes shut, bringing both faces to mind again. The resemblance was there, no doubt of it. But was he truly Roelstra’s son? And if so, what then? Had he a right to his father’s princedom? Strictly speaking, Kleve supposed he did. But Rohan had defeated Roelstra years ago and claimed Princemarch by all the rules of war. And none of that would matter, for even if Masul was not who he claimed to be, many of the princes would choose to believe—if only to make trouble for Rohan.

Political complexities were beyond him, Kleve told himself. He would convey this staggering news to Andrade and she would make the decisions. She was very good at that. He pushed himself to his feet, bones aching a little with the dampness of yesterday’s rain. He needed quiet, seclusion, and moonlight. He crept away from the house, not needing to see or hear anything more, heading for the trees where he’d left Riyan.

Something warned him, some muted whisper at the edge of his perceptions, half an instant before he heard the voice.

“So you were right after all, Kiele. We
were
being watched.”

A long, hard hand circled Kleve’s wrist, fingers that dug all the way to the bones. The Sunrunner wrenched away and cursed, lunging for the mare tethered nearby. Masul only laughed as Kleve grabbed the reins, fit his boot into a stirrup, and lurched up. The fist that slammed into his lower back made him spasm with pain. He lost his balance and sprawled to the ground.

“I told you I heard something!” Kiele cried, her voice thin and shrill. “Masul, what are we going to do with him?”

“First, we’ll find out what he knows.”

Kleve knew what would happen after that. He struggled to his feet, hanging onto the saddle for support, and lifted one hand. “You’ll answer to Lady Andrade! I’m
faradhi!
”

Into the darkness he spun a flaring weave of Fire, called up in desperation—for by its light he saw his own death in Masul’s green eyes. The young man was laughing at him, a deep and mellow laugh that congealed his blood.

“I’ve always wanted to meet one.”

Kleve fought a small, incoherent war with his lifelong vow not to kill using his gifts. Self-preservation and the need to get this information to Andrade battled against his training, his ideals, his vocation, and his morals. He turned his face to the moonlight, staggering back against the horse’s flank as Masul kneed him in the groin. The Fire guttered out, and instinct spun other threads with frantic speed. Power flushed through him with dizzying strength in his need as he completed the weaving. The iron grip twisted his arm. He fell to his knees, tangled in moonlight. Sorting threads with frantic bursts of power, he struggled against Masul’s physical hold and made a mighty effort to pattern the moonlight into fabric that would reach to Goddess Keep.

There was an icy chill at the base of his left little finger, quickly replaced by a searing pain.

“Finger by finger,” Masul said.

In his youth, when he’d delighted in invigorating battle with mountain raiders who respected profits more than Sunrunners, he’d known his share of wounds by knife and sword. But when Masul’s steel blade slashed off his finger, he felt as if his entire body had been cut open, every nerve severed. Threads of moonlight turned to spun silver glass around him and shattered. The shards lacerated his mind. He screamed, the sound becoming colors that were additional knives in his head, in his flesh. The thumb was carved from his right hand and he screamed again.

“Don’t kill him! We have to find out what he knows and if he’s told Andrade!”

“It’s only two fingers. He won’t die of it. What a coward he is—just listen to him yelling!”

Kleve was incapable of fighting the appalling agony that butchered him from inside out. Another finger dropped into the blood-washed dirt. He died before they could ask their first question: died not from loss of blood or physical shock, but from the steel that repeatedly pierced him while he tried to use his
faradhi
gifts.