Pol had not seen the sunset scarlet of the Desert as Sioned had. Instead of blood, he was reminded of fire. In his imagination it rippled across the dunes, making the flowers and tall dry grasses separate small torches. When the sunlight vanished over the Vere Hills to the west, the flames did not die out; they only paled on their leap into the sky. The stars ignited one by one—the first ones far away in the near-blackness over the Long Sand—then spread like wildfire. Much as he loved the verdant valley of Dragon’s Rest, he sometimes hungered for this desolate sweep of sand and sky, this land his ancestors had fought for and kept. He wondered if their spirits hovered about him on the slight breeze, watching as he approached his own battle for their Desert.
Ruval strode a few more paces toward him, then stopped. He wore a flowing russet mantle, clasped loosely around his narrow hips by a belt of heavy linked gold circles. His blue eyes had picked up the blackness of his high-collared tunic. Pol sized him up quietly—not for strength or speed or skill of the body, but for the qualities of mind and power. But those things were forgotten as Ruval lifted both tanned, long-fingered hands. He wore Sunrunner’s rings. Ten of them, set with jewels. The blue-black eyes laughed as Pol stiffened in outrage, the mocking glint in them saying, And who’s to deny me, princeling?
But for just an instant, there and gone so fast Pol barely knew it had happened, it was not Ruval he saw standing before him. It was Andry.
A casual flick of one finger, and flames blossomed from a boulder on Pol’s left to light the space between them. He looked into his half-brother’s eyes, searched his face for any hint of similarity between them—and thanked the Goddess that his father’s blood was so strong in him that there was no resemblance at all. He felt no call of kinship, no pull of shared origin. He wondered briefly if echoes of his own face in Ruval’s would have made this harder.
He conjured answering Fire on a large stone to his right. The area was well illuminated now, light seeping into the craggy stone face of the canyon mouth. How many days since he rode here with his oh-so-clever plan for Meiglan in mind? He felt a hundred years older now. Knowledge had changed him.
So had Mireva. He shied away from that memory, and the need for a cleansing image sent his thoughts to Meiglan. It was surprising to realize that she, too, had changed him with her trust and faith. She asked nothing, demanded nothing—because in her eyes he was already everything that could protect and cherish her, everything he had always wanted to be: a true prince and Sunrunner; powerful, strong, and wise. Always before when he had looked at a woman and wondered what it might be like to have her as his wife, he had considered the issue only in terms of himself. His wife, his Choice, his marriage—as if he was the only one involved. With Meiglan, the only way he could explain it to himself was that when he looked at her, he wanted to be her husband.
There was a serenity in that, unexpected and welcome, a sureness of heart that matched his faith in his power. Not arrogance, not vainglory, but simple awareness that whatever must be done, he had the strength to do it. So he faced Ruval with unfeigned serenity, waiting.
“The smart thing to do would be to kill me where I stand,” Ruval said. “Or have one of them do it for you.” He gestured toward their audience, standing nearby beside their horses, forming a rough semicircle.
Pol nodded agreement.
“But you’re not smart, Pol. You’re honorable.” He sneered the word.
“I wouldn’t want to disappoint anyone.” Pol hesitated slightly. “You say Roelstra was your grandfather, Ianthe your mother. What proof can you offer?”
Ruval’s face betrayed surprise. He had not been expecting a challenge of this nature at this late date. He took a small gold coin from one pocket, and tossed it at Pol. “You’ll recognize my grandsire’s face.”
Holding it between thumb and forefinger, he asked in honest amazement, “Do you seriously expect me to compare profiles?”
The coin sprouted tiny, cold flames. In them Pol saw a roomful of gold lit by a single torch held high by a very beautiful, very pregnant woman. His heart stopped, then raced: Ianthe.
“A small trick,” Ruval said negligently as the flames flickered out. “But I’m sure you’re aware that such a memory could only be conjured by one who was there to see it. Who else would Princess Ianthe show her gold to but her eldest son? Gold your father provided in exchange for dranath to cure the Plague.”
Pol struggled to recover from stunned astonishment. The display had been impressive, not only in its casual power but in its effect on him: his first and probably only sight of his mother. Pregnant. Carrying him. His fingers felt welded to the coin, even though the flames had held no heat. “Satisfied?” Ruval demanded.
“I—” He cleared his throat. Ruval had made it all too easy to put the right tremor into his voice. “Is there anything that will content you other than this battle?”
His half-brother looked interested. “What did you have in mind?”
“Land. A castle. Perhaps Feruche, which your brother wanted enough to die for—”
“You’re that frightened of me?” Ruval laughed. “Oh, I’ll have Feruche, all right. And Dragon’s Rest and everything else you own—especially Castle Crag.”
“And if I refuse this battle?”
“Back down in front of all these people?”
“You have no army, now that Chiana is out of the way. You’d lose a war.”
“Andry used the more benevolent ros’salath at Dragon’s Rest. Make war, or even attempt to kill me here with treachery, and I’ll show you its true power.”
Pol bit his lip and was sincerely glad that his cousin was absent tonight. Evidently the Star Scroll had not taught him the fatal version. “I agreed to meet you here—I didn’t accept formal challenge.”
“I noticed that in your wording,” Ruval commented. “Allow me to convince you. If you refuse, I’ll reveal the Desert’s most cherished secret.” The blood froze in his veins.
“And that might be?”
“Gold.” He waved to the canyon behind them. “Unlimited, secret gold. Dragon gold! I know about Skybowl. In the memory of that coin is the smelter there. Accept my challenge, Pol, or Miyon and Barig will soon know the truth—and you’d have to kill them to keep them from spreading the knowledge to every other princedom.”
“It seems I have no choice.” He hid his relief and tossed the coin back at Ruval with what he hoped was a good show of false bravado.
“None whatsoever,” Ruval replied cheerfully.
Pol pulled his shoulders straight and asked, “Shall we settle on the rules for the ricsina?”
Ruval’s brows arched. “So you have read the Star Scroll.”
“Certainly. Haven’t you?”
“As much as Mireva could steal, from Andry’s copy. Where is he, by the way?”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not. But he would have enjoyed watching you blunder around with spells you don’t understand. You’re not his favorite person.”
“Granted. Well, shall we begin?”
“All Elements,” Ruval said briskly. “And the two of us only. No other people. I don’t need anyone else.” He smiled. “You can’t win, you know. There are things about sorcery that can kill you if you use them incorrectly.”
Pol glanced away. “Agreed,” he whispered.
“I also claim no weapons, no physical touch.”
He didn’t bother to hide his chagrin; there were several knives about his person that would have been useful if that rule had not been invoked. “I didn’t expect an honest battle from you. But you’re the one who can’t win. Princemarch is mine, and you’re going to die.”
“I’ll write that on a slip of parchment and burn it in the oratory at Castle Crag in your memory,” Ruval grinned.