“Don’t you want to know what it is?”
“I can’t wait,” he spat.
“It’s only a little one,” he said, playing it out to the end. “Rather easily remedied.” He paused. “Her fault is that she’s not my wife. Yet.”
“Pol!”
At last he took pity on his friend. “I really have you fooled, don’t I?”
Rialt sank bonelessly into a chair.
“A moment to treasure!” Pol allowed himself to gloat a moment, then sobered. “No one must know about this, not even my parents. Just you and I, or it won’t work. I’ve a pretty good idea of what Miyon is up to with this girl. And I’ll need your help, the way my father needed Walvis thirty years ago. Have you heard that story?”
It took a couple of tries before Rialt could form coherent words. In the end, he said only one. “Roelstra?”
“Exactly. Miyon’s not overly burdened with wits, but he’s capable of copying someone else’s plan. One of Roelstra’s innumerable daughters was supposed to marry Father, give him a son or two, and then become his grieving widow—and regent while the little vipers grew. It was a clever idea and might even have worked if Father really had been the fool he pretended to be for Roelstra’s benefit.”
“And if not for your mother. But—Lady Meiglan can’t possibly be a party to this!”
Pol shrugged. “She looks as innocent as a new morning, but who can say? I don’t want to hurt her unnecessarily if she really doesn’t know anything about her father’s plot. Still, I have to play along—only the game is going to be mine, not his grace of Cunaxa’s. That’s why you have to help me. Make sure people know how worried you are about my interest in her. I’ll have enough trouble being obvious without being too obvious—it wouldn’t do for anyone who knows me well to guess what I’m up to.” He grimaced. “I warn you, I’ll start sounding and behaving like a madman.”
“Why change your style now?” Rialt laughed. “Just make sure you don’t get overwhelmed by your own game. And if the girl really is the innocent she appears, this isn’t fair to her.”
That was the only problem, Pol reflected as he watched Meiglan smile at some remark of Ruala’s. Now, there was a fascinating young woman, he acknowledged, and it was obvious that Riyan thought so, too. But there was something about Meiglan that did attract him, and he was powerless to analyze exactly what it was. Certainly she was beautiful, and in a way vastly different from other women he knew. But though Pol was deeply sensitive to beauty of any kind, from the glory of the Veresch in springtime to the delicate grace of Fironese crystal, he had never been a slave to his senses. Her music bewitched him, but music always had. He decided that what intrigued him was the uncertainty. Was she truly as she seemed, or did her vulnerability mask a ruthless mind?
He would find out eventually. But for the present he was sure of two things. First, she represented danger—either through total knowledge of the way he read Miyon’s plan for marriage and death, or in total innocence that really might enchant him. Second, until he discovered which it was, he must conduct most of his act out of her sight and hearing. If she was conversant with Miyon’s aims, it would not do for her to think she was succeeding; if she was not, he had no wish to cause her pain. His conversations with Feylin and Riyan that day would be duly reported to his parents; just sitting beside her would work as well as if he openly flirted with her. Come to think of it, he mused, she probably didn’t know how to flirt.
It worried him a little that he was deliberately fooling those who loved him. But he had little choice. And his father had done the same thing, after all. Still, even though he had taken a page from Rohan’s book, he was very different from his father. Rohan had learned how to wait—indeed, preferred to wait while things developed on their own. Usually it worked for him; sometimes it did not. But Pol was not made that way. He had to do something, could not merely allow things to happen to himself or others. He had to influence events, turn them in directions he wanted them to go. He supposed in time he would discover the kind of patience his father had.
But for now. ...
After the meal some of the group mounted up once more to ride into Rivenrock Canyon. Pol chuckled under his breath as he saw Riyan’s attempts to gain Ruala’s sole companionship foiled by the twins. They had taken a liking to her and insisted she ride with them—graciously allowing Riyan to join them. Maarken and Hollis chose to linger in the pavilion for a comfortable chat with Andry and Sionell. Meiglan, however, came along. Whether she wanted to or had been told to was open to speculation.
Feylin played tour guide as they rode into the canyon. Nialdan, Andry’s other faradhi companion, listened in abject wonder as Feylin described the cycle of dragon mating: first the devouring of bittersweet plants, then the cliff-dance and the sand-dance during which the females selected their mates.
“Afterward, the she-dragon walls up her eggs to bake through the summer. When the little beasts hatch, they gobble their weaker siblings to give them the strength to break down the walls. They breathe fire to dry and toughen their wings—and to roast their first meal.”
Nialdan gulped. “I see,” he said shakily.
Feylin had a grin and went on remorselessly, “Yes, back when the dragons were using these caves, it was said that when the walls finally came down you could smell broiled dragon meat all the way to Radzyn. Ask Lord Andry sometime. He’ll tell you.”
The big Sunrunner gave a faint nod, eyes wide.
“Of course, that’s nothing to the mating stink. The sires give off the most appalling stench. You may be wondering how I know so much,” she added blithely. “Some years ago I had the great good fortune to carve up a dead dragon. Remarkable creatures. Incredible structure to the wings, of course, but the stomach and brain were nearly as interesting, once I’d washed all the blood off.”
“Indeed, my lady,” Nialdan managed, looking rather pale.
Pol glanced around and was relieved to find Meiglan out of earshot, riding between Chayla and one of the Cunaxan guards. He turned his horse in their direction and was amused to see the man bow and ride off; none of Miyon’s people got very near him, and had probably been given orders that whenever he approached Meiglan, they were to back away.
“What do you think of the canyon, my lady?”
“I—I can imagine the dragons here, my lord, even though I’ve never seen one.”
“Never?” Chayla exclaimed. “Oh, but you have to! They’re beautiful!”
“If his grace my father allows it, then perhaps we’ll stay long enough to see them.”
“Only another few days,” Pol supplied. “They’ll fill the skies with their wings and their challenges to each other. It’s not to be missed.”
“Can we go look in the caves?” Chayla asked. “Please?”
“Not today, sweetheart. Didn’t your papa ever tell you what happened to him and his brother when they tried it once? A baby dragon popped out and nearly scared them to death!”
“And your papa and Sioned scared the dragon away,” she finished. “But there aren’t any dragons here now.”
“No.” He squinted up at the canyon walls. Darkness gaped here and there, natural caves carved even larger by dragons. They must return here or they would never reproduce in the numbers that would ensure their survival.
“I wish they’d come back,” Chayla sighed.
Meiglan regarded her curiously. “Do you remember them so clearly, then? You couldn’t have been very old during the last mating.”
“Dragons fly over the Desert every year. Oh, you have to stay to see them, Lady Meggie! Pol, tell her she has to stay.”
He smiled at them. “I’ll do everything in my power to assure it.”
Rohannon trotted up and challenged his sister to a race—supervised by Riyan and Ruala, so Pol allowed it. When he and Meiglan were alone, he turned to her once more.