The dragon shuddered, her eyes like onyx shot through with silver, glittering suddenly as she looked down at Pol. He hoped the reaction was in response to an easing of the spell’s hold on her, but didn’t count on it. He saw out of the corner of his eye that Riyan was in charge of the red-haired man, who swore luridly and glared at them. Sorin had snatched up the sackful of spikes and looked as though he was contemplating using them on the dragon killer.
“Your grace,” the man said, still smiling, laughter hovering around his eyes and mouth as if this really was too funny, “I assume you’ve come to forbid me, or arrest me, or some other nonsense.”
Pol smiled back, a stretching of his lips from his teeth. “I’d rather kill you.”
“Of course. But you won’t.” He tossed dagger, sword, and bloodied talon to the ground, his movements casually elegant and reeking of insolence. “I think I ought to tell you that once I’m occupied with you, the dragon will be released from certain . . . restrictions. She’s not at all happy right now. In fact, she’s likely to rip any or all of us to shreds.”
“Unquestionably,” Pol replied with perfect calm.
“So rather than play other and, I’ll admit, equally interesting, games, why don’t you put up your sword and ride away like a good little prince? It’ll save everyone a great deal of bother.”
“You understand that I can’t do that,” Pol said as if to a particularly slow child. “But while we’re discussing things, I’d like to know who you are and why you’re doing this. Neither my father nor I take kindly to persons who murder our dragons.”
“As if they belong to you!” He laughed.
“They are mine as Princemarch is mine—which is to say, they are under my protection as prince and Sunrunner.”
“Ah, yes. Credentials must be presented, like good ambassadors. You already know mine, I gather. But I thought you’d puzzled this out by now. I wanted to meet you, and this seemed an invitation you couldn’t ignore.”
“And my palace at Dragon’s Rest would have been a little too . . . confining.” Pol nodded. “Well, you’ve met me. What now?”
“Nothing so crude as killing you. Not yet, anyway. I require a larger audience for that.” A short pause and a mocking smile. “Cousin.”
“I thought you’d make some claim to that effect,” Pol mused. “And since it’s on the soil of Princemarch that you’ve chosen to perpetrate this outrage, it must be Princemarch you want.” He sighed tolerantly. “Another bastard son of Roelstra’s, no doubt, wearing a color you have no right to. That’s been tried before. Try to think up something more original.”
“So you have reasonably quick wits. I’m glad—it will make this more interesting. I don’t like things made too easy. But as to originality. ...” He grinned into Pol’s eyes. They were much of a height, Pol perhaps a finger-span shorter; the prince was as broad in the shoulders, but slimmer through waist, hip, and thigh. A trained warrior’s physical instinct had sized up his opponent earlier; a trained statesman’s cunning had given him the man’s intellectual measure; but more than either, the sensitivities of a faradhi fully trained in Sunrunner arts and conversant with the secret, dangerous Star Scroll chimed clear, shrill warning. When he met this man in battle, it would not be with swords, as his father had fought Roelstra, nor would it be with words, as he had confronted the pretender Masul nine years ago.
The man gave Pol a slight, impertinent bow. “My name is Ruval, I was born at Feruche, and I have the honor to be the firstborn of Ianthe of Princemarch.” He grinned then. “Not Roelstra’s’ son, you see, but his grandson.”
Pol felt himself go very still. He should have laughed in the man’s face, told him that Ianthe’s sons had died with her the night Feruche had burned to the ground. But he could not, because he knew the truth. Urival, just before his death, had called him to his bedside in private.
“No one knows what I’m about to tell you. Not Andry, not even your mother. Ostvel may suspect—he has access to Roelstra’s archives, remember. But you must tell no one until you believe the right time has come. You recall the boy who died at the Rialla, the sorcerer? I kept him anonymous, threw his body into the Faolain so no one could identify him as I had done. What I saw in his face was Ianthe. He was her son, Pol—the youngest, Segev. He called himself ‘Sejast’ but he was Ianthe’s son. The other two must also be alive. Ruval and Marron are their names. I don’t know where they are, though I’ve searched whenever I had the chance. I believe they’re in the Veresch somewhere, but—who can say? If they’re anything like her, and judging from Segev you can bet that they are, they are the greatest danger you could face. They are diarmadh’im, Pol. Princes, just as you are, but sorcerers as well. I’ve taught you all I know, all I safely could, of the Star Scroll, anticipating them. Now it appears I won’t be there, my prince, to help you face them. For they will come, Pol, never doubt that. Ianthe’s sons. When you find them, kill them. They must die. They deserve to die. Segev killed Andrade.”
Pol stared at Ianthe’s eldest son, recognizing at last the distinctive shape of nose and chin. Urival had once conjured for him a representation of Roelstra’s face in Fire; two generations had altered the face subtly, changed the coloring a bit, added a narrower jaw and wider cheekbones—enough changes to foil identification unless one was looking for it. He knew that this man was who he said he was. And his companion must be Marron. But he could not admit it. Must not. “You’re no more Roelstra’s grandson than I am,” he snapped.
“Then perhaps you truly are my cousin in fact, and not merely in courtesy between princes.” Ruval’s blue eyes were laughing again. “Which of my mother’s esteemed sisters could have spawned you?”
“I’ve heard it said that of all the sisters, Ianthe was the most like Roelstra in her bedroom habits,” Pol riposted smoothly. “Which servant, squire, or groom do you claim as your father?”
At last Ruval reacted with something other than amusement. His eyes lost their taunting glitter and narrowed dangerously. “My father was Lord Chelan, a highborn with bloodlines—”
“—suitable for standing at stud,” Pol interrupted, beginning to enjoy himself.
Ruval’s jaw clenched. But he swiftly regained control of himself. “In any case, you have many things that belong to me, but restoring to me my mother’s castle of Feruche will make a good start.”
Pol smiled. “When dragons spend winters in Snowcoves,” he said.
“There’ll be hatchlings riding icebergs next summer,” Ruval snarled.
This time Pol was the one who laughed. “Sorin!”
“My prince?” His cousin was beside him immediately.
“I see a tree felled over there—obviously intended for securing the dragon. Slice off two branches an arm’s span long, if you would.”
Sorin grinned, understanding Pol’s intention. “We already have the spikes, my prince.”
“So I noticed.”
Ruval had recovered his poise again. “You wouldn’t dare,” he commented easily.
Pol eyed him. “No? Oh, go ahead, release the dragon. Do you think I don’t see that in your face? Let her go—and see what good it does you.”
He hoped Riyan had heard and comprehended the challenge. The possibilities of sorcery worried him, but he was counting on timing. To work against Pol, Ruval would have to release the dragon—but the instant she was free, she would go wild with rage and the only thing on anyone’s mind would be getting out of her way. Riyan could, he hoped, subdue her before Ruval or Marron could either work any magic or use more conventional forms of attack. Besides, the brothers were outnumbered and Pol’s other allies were watching from the hilltops. Pol felt confident in his gamble; it was a wager Sioned would have taken at once, being inordinately fond of a good, dirty bet when almost all the odds were in her favor. It just might work, Pol told himself.