Hues no one had ever seen or named spun in an explosion of color that had the nearby Sunrunners screaming. Pol hung on. He and Ruval battled for the dragon as if it, too, was part of the victor’s spoils. But as they fought, Ruval lost control of his shape-change, Pol’s stolen features fading away to reveal his own.
And suddenly, faced once again by the “true” Ruval and not himself, Pol realized that this was all wrong. He was forgetting everything taught him by his father’s example of wise patience. He was fighting the enemy on the enemy’s own terms. He was becoming his enemy: using power for its own sake. And worst of all, he was using the dragon as his tool.
The beast screamed again, circling erratically above the Fire-strewn Desert as if his wings were not entirely his to command. The night spun in conflicting, burning colors, as if three blazing whirlwinds fought above the dunes and filled Rivenrock Canyon with unbearable light. Two of these had nearly merged, were nearly one. Pol was still apart, and knew he was about to lose this battle for possession of the dragon.
Ruval hungered for possession—of land, wealth, power. All would never be enough; for a man like that, there was no such thing as “all.” There was only “more.” He was not even like their grandsire, who had only amused himself with power. Ruval was as Masul had been: an embittered outcast, dedicated to exacting grim payment for perceived wrongs done him. But the pretender had been only a man. Ruval was a sorcerer. If he won this battle, Pol’s would be only the first death.
Andry would be next—the only other person who could oppose him on his terms. Goddess only knew what he would then do to Rohan and Sioned and those Pol loved—and Meggie—
He shifted his mental and emotional stance, deliberately stifling fear that could only distract and harm him. It was the calm his father had taught him to seek at the Rialla, a patience that allowed him to hear meanings within meanings. But now he listened to his own mind, his own heart.
Into the place where fury had been he summoned his lifelong awe at the sight of dragons. He called up childhood memories of standing on Stronghold’s ramparts as dragons filled the sky with the wind of their wings. He remembered that first ride into the valley of Dragon’s Rest, now his mother had “spoken” with the dragon she’d named Elisel. He filled himself with dragon wings and colors and voices, his soaring joy at watching them, his delight when they flew in to Dragon’s Rest and partook of the feast he gladly offered. He gloried in their strength and beauty and freedom, and even as the dragonsire swept down in another attack, Pol was smiling. Perhaps it was true that a dragon-sense had been passed down from Zehava to Rohan to him, that his line truly deserved the title of azhrei; he only knew that he loved the dragons for reasons beyond himself. He belonged to them as surely as they belonged to Desert skies.
Suddenly it was as it had been in the spring—an incredible whirl of power and colors merging with his own. There were no words, only emotions. But this time he felt not a dragon’s dying anguish but a dragon’s rage. Dimly, as if from a great distance, he sensed Ruval’s faltering control—and the roar of the dragon echoed in his own heart as together they broke free.
For a few moments more Pol was that dragon. The flush of new strength through blood and muscle was his; the powerful beat of wings, the rush of hot wind as he skimmed the flames that climbed the walls of Rivenrock. And he knew, not in words or coherent thoughts but in sheer savage emotion, what the dragon was about to do. The next instant he felt rocks digging fresh agony into his knees. Close enough to spray sand over him, almost to brush him with an outspread wingtip, the dragon swooped across the sand with talons outstretched. They dug into Ruval’s mantle. There was a gush of blood and the sound of ribs cracking, and a single shriek. Pol tilted his head back, gasping for breath, transfixed as the dragon carried his prey up into the starry sky.
Days later, halfway across the Long Sand, they would find a charred heap of broken bones and Sunrunner rings and a half-melted gold coin bearing Roelstra’s likeness.
Meiglan freed her arm from her father’s grasp and ran headlong over the sand. She flung herself into Pol’s startled embrace, still so torn between terror and joy that she didn’t even know she was crying.
Rohan helped Sioned to her feet, ran his fingers anxiously over the crescent-shaped scar, livid against her white cheek. She gave a tiny smile to reassure him. Then she sank very calmly down onto the sand, whispering, “I-I feel a little faint.”
Morwenna pushed herself up from her knees, swearing. Her head ached as if she’d been drinking strong wine since the New Year Holiday, her fingers felt scorched to the bone, and her body hurt so much she suspected the bones would come apart at the joints. “Damned undignified position,” she muttered as she struggled to stand.
Chay had kept Tobin upright during the battle only through main strength; she was limp, her eyelids fluttering. He swung her up into his arms and rocked her, calling her name frantically until sense returned to her face.
Maarken and Hollis knelt huddled in each other’s arms, stricken, trembling. At length the agony of the assault on their senses faded. Walvis and Feylin helped them up. Maarken looked around, whispered his gratitude, and clung to his wife with what remained of his strength.
Sionell turned from the sight of Pol and Meiglan’s embrace. Tallain, holding her, didn’t notice. He was staring at the Desert. The sand was still ablaze.
Rialt, with the virtue of practicality, had the presence of mind to send Arlis and Edrel running off to see if they could collect a few horses. None of the Sunrunners would be able to walk the whole way back to Stronghold.
Barig cleared his throat ponderously and said to Miyon, “Was this legal according to the rules agreed on?”
The prince replied, “Don’t be a fool. A dragon isn’t a weapon or a person. His grace won fairly.” Though it seared the skin of his lips to have to say it.
Rohan looked up from where he knelt with Sioned cradled in his arms. He called Sionell over to tend her, then went to where Meiglan was helping Pol to his feet. The girl saw him first; she caught her breath and straightened defensively. Rohan realized that she feared him, but her trust that Pol would protect her was greater. She proved it by holding him tighter and meeting Rohan’s gaze with a kind of apprehensive defiance.
Pol looked at him then, his eyes dim with exhaustion. It was clear that until that moment, no one had existed for him but Meiglan. Rohan repressed a sigh and, in a mild voice that fooled neither himself nor his son, said, “Will you kindly do something about this?” He gestured to the flames that scoured Rivenrock. “I really can’t have you turning my princedom into a blast furnace.”
Pol gave him a shaky smile. “Sorry. But I don’t know if I can stop it. Or even if I should,” he added pensively.
“Won’t—won’t it burn itself out soon?” Meiglan ventured.
“I suppose so,” Rohan said. “Come to think of it, it does make a rather nice statement. Although setting your own beacon-fire comes somewhat in advance of your right to do so, Pol. I’m not dead yet.”
The young man looked stricken. “Father—I—”
Rohan was surprised, but knew he shouldn’t have been. For Pol, humor wasn’t the weapon against impossible tension that it had always been for him. So he made himself laugh.
Pol relaxed at once. He even rallied enough to say, “It won’t burn as far as Remagev—I think!”
“It’s dry a few measures out from here, if memory serves,” Rohan told him. “Not even this winter’s rains made anything grow. But if it does get to Remagev, you’ll pay to rebuild it.”
“If Walvis lets me live long enough!”
Meiglan listened to the exchange with wide, bewildered eyes. Rohan smiled to hide his resentment of her presence. Had she not been here, he might have said to his son what he needed so much to say. Instead, he was forced to keep those words to himself. There might be time later to say them—and there might not.