“Do you think so?” He was truly concerned with her reply. She gave it without hesitation.
“Yes, my lord. You are not your father. Your battles are not his.”
“And there’s a battle coming tonight for me that he can have no part in.” Pol touched her hair again. “Meggie—afterward, if I survive this—”
“Of course you will survive! You must!” She could not conceive of what might happen if he did not; the very idea terrified her.
A smile came to his face again, softening his expression. “Thank you. Whether you said that because you know it’s what I needed to hear, or whether you truly believe it, thank you.”
“I trust in you, my lord. You will win.”
He must.
Pol leaned down and kissed her mouth: gently at first, quietly, but with a growing passion that not even an inexperienced virgin could mistake. As his lips traveled slowly down her throat, she gave a tiny, shivering sigh.
She was confused when he lifted his head and looked into her eyes again. Had she done something wrong? Was she supposed to say something, do something?
“So innocent,” he whispered, “you are innocent, Meggie.”
Her cheeks burned anew. Of course he was used to women who knew how to kiss a man. He was her first. It humiliated her that this was so obvious to him.
He was smiling at her now, a wistful smile that melted away all emotion but newly discovered love for him. He was powerful; he would protect her with his cleverness and his strength; she would be safe. The notion was as foreign to her as the love, as the sudden desire that trembled through her while looking up at the sweet curve of his mouth.
“May I watch tonight, my lord, when you take the battle to your enemy?” Surprise flickered over his face. “I want to see you win.”
“You really do believe it, don’t you?” he mused.
“Yes, my lord.”
He smiled again. “Meggie, my name is Pol. Say it for me.”
She did so, shyly. Feminine instinct roused for the first time in her life and she knew as she said his name that he would kiss her again.
27
Rivenrock Canyon: 35 Spring
Ruval pressed his back to the ragged wall of the cave, breathing hard. He had just used hated sunlight for the fifth time that day, trying to find Mireva. There had been nothing from her, not the slightest whisper. He had been about to search on the noonday sun when Pol’s acceptance had come to him, a declamation powerful as a storm wind through pines. The satisfaction of having an affirmative answer at last had not survived his failure to find Mireva. Now it was getting on toward sunset. Soon the sky would blacken and the stars would pock the night. He must accept that he would face Pol alone.
Alone.
He whipped back rising panic with pride in his lineage, his powers, and his training. He would win. Mireva had chosen him as her instrument of vengeance against all Sunrunners. He would confirm Mireva’s choice, avenge his mother, sit in his grandfather’s place as prince at Castle Crag. Roelstra had failed, and Ianthe, to break Rohan’s power. They had been cunning—but Ruval possessed knowledge they had not. He knew how to kill Pol, and in a way no one would ever suspect.
So he scoffed away trepidation and settled once more on a little shelf of stone at the cavern mouth, eating the last of his meager provisions as the shadows lengthened. He didn’t much like the canyon, though it would be a magnificent arena for his victory. The shadows carved deep into the rock walls were black and silent, like eyes disguising secrets. The cave he rested in was littered with the leavings of countless dragon generations—skulls with staring sockets where eyes should have been, shattered shells half-blackened by fire. A stiff, leathery bit of wing had fluttered in the afternoon updraft that swept through the canyon, startling him into a cry that echoed from wall to wall outside. He set himself to planning the eradication of every dragon now living—he’d discovered they were fine sport, and old Prince Zehava had had the right idea about proving prowess by killing the great beasts. But, more than those things, he disliked the feeling he got in this place where dragons had been. It was their place, not his; he intended that every grain of sand in the Desert and every handspan of soil on the continent belong to him alone.
Just before the sun vanished, he sifted dranath into his wineskin and drank it down. The drug bolstered his courage, gave new strength to his blood. Very softly, Ruval began to laugh. The sensuous haze of the drug rippled through his body, and then the welcome sensation of power. He clenched sand in his fists, let it trickle through his fingers, admiring the sparkle of golden dust visible even in the dimness. This, too, was power. Ruval decided to let Rohan live for a time, to feel the agony of loss and failure Ianthe had known. Then he would die, and all his family with him. Princemarch, the Desert, the gold—everything would be Ruval’s. And the title of High Prince.
With the first stars came the call of dragon horns. Ruval stood, brushed off his hands, and smiled. He needed no one. He was alone, but it was better so. Everyone would see that his were the greater powers, and bow to him as sorcerer and prince. It was the moment his mother had craved and been cheated of. He would kill Pol with her name on his lips.
The setting sun blooded the Desert, turning the swells and hollows of flower-strewn sand to waves in a dark crimson sea. Sioned rode with her husband behind their son, watching the light redden Pol’s hair until it was almost the same firegold as her own. She could sense other presences behind her, riding by twos—Chay and Tobin; Maarken and Hollis; Tallain and Sioned; Walvis and Feylin. Miyon rode with Barig, Arlis with Morwenna. Rialt and Edrel brought up the rear. Ruala and Riyan were missing—she was still shaken and though he fiercely wanted to witness the battle, Pol had ordered him to stay with her. Andry and the Sunrunners Oclel and Nialdan had also stayed behind. Meiglan, like Pol, rode alone. She had been the subject of a heated discussion that afternoon between Sioned and Rohan.
“Well, he can’t marry her.” They had just seen the pair from their windows, strolling the gardens.
“Has it occurred to you that he may actually love her?”
“Impossible! She’s not what he needs. Look at her, keeping him wandering around down there when he ought to be reviewing the Star Scroll—if she cared for him at all, she’d—”
“Sioned, it’s in her eyes whenever she looks at him. And he looks at her—”
“Oh, yes, I’ve seen it,” she said derisively. “He plays the big, strong, protective male with her. Goddess preserve me from imbecilic masculine fantasies! Pol doesn’t need some delicate little flower who’d be crushed by the first stiff breeze. He needs a wife and a princess. And he knows what kind of woman he ought to Choose.”
“You mean the kind of woman you think he ought to Choose.”
“Why are you defending her?” she exclaimed. “Meiglan could never comprehend even the smallest part of Pol’s work as a prince!”
“Did you ever think that perhaps he doesn’t need what I did in a wife? I may have required a living flame—but not every man needs that kind of woman.”
“You’ll never convince me he needs some shatter-shelled little fool who never opens her mouth except to whimper!”
“From what you yourself said, it seems to me she did pretty well against her father this morning.”
She scowled. “That has nothing to do with it. She’s wrong for him.”
“Pol’s not five winters old anymore, Sioned. He’s a grown man entitled to make his own decisions.”
“And his own mistakes?” Sioned swung on him furiously. “I won’t let him do something that would ruin his life!”
He replied with the deceptive mildness that would ordinarily have been warning enough. “My father would probably have considered you a mistake. But my life has hardly been ruined.”
“I won’t allow it, Rohan. He’s not going to marry her.”