“Chayla called you ‘Meggie’ instead of Meiglan.”
The girl flushed. “It’s—a nickname, my lord, given by my nurse. Chayla happened on it by accident, I think.”
“The old word for honey-pine is ‘megna,’ isn’t it?”
She nodded. “Nobody’s called me that in many years, my lord.”
“Does your nurse think you’re too old for nicknames now?”
“She died when I was about Chayla’s age.”
“And you loved her very much.”
“Yes,” she said unwillingly, as if admitting to emotion was dangerous.
Pol was ashamed, but an apology was impossible. He knew without being told that the only love in her short life had been connected to that nurse; Goddess knew, she received none from her father. The fact that she had not mentioned her mother in connection with the tender nickname hinted at no affection from that source, either. Pol realized again how lucky he was in parents as in all else.
“Shall—shall we join the others, my lord?” Meiglan asked warily.
The somber expression brought by his thoughts had alarmed her; she looked as if afraid she had said something wrong. But there was nothing he could do to apologize or make amends except give her a reassuring smile.
He left her in Nialdan’s care and rode with Feylin down the canyon, talking dragons and trying to imagine what it had been like when they used Rivenrock. But there was no feel of dragons here as there was at other cavern complexes.
The sounds of hoofbeats and laughter rang off the stone as the children raced their ponies. Pol noted that Riyan had finally managed to separate Ruala from the others, and grinned to himself; the sooner the better, indeed. Elktrap was a formidable dowry. Ostvel would be pleased. But Riyan might get a little ragged around the edges, supervising Skybowl, Elktrap, and Feruche—
Suddenly someone screamed, and Feylin lurched forward in her saddle as another horse’s shoulder plowed into her own mount’s hindquarters. Feylin’s mare kicked back instinctively, but the second horse was already galloping back down the canyon. Pol’s heart stopped for an instant as he saw that the rider wore cream and orange, and thick golden curls whipped back from her face.
He swore and dug his heels into Pashoc’s sides. Though Meiglan’s mare was no match for the stallion, she was Radzyn-bred for strength. Panic gave her wings. As the distance between them narrowed too slowly, Pol wondered what could have spooked the usually placid animal to bolt. The reins had escaped the girl’s hands entirely and she had both arms flung around the horse’s neck. If the mare stumbled on the reins and fell—
He rejected the image of her slight body pitching over the mare’s head to shatter on stony ground. Riding low over Pashoc’s neck, he urged the horse to greater speed. They were out of Rivenrock now, thundering past the gold pavilion out on the dunes. The mare began to tire. At last Pol was able to lean from his saddle and grab one of the dangling reins. Another few moments, and the mare had slowed to a shuddering, exhausted walk.
Meiglan still had a death grip on the horse. Pol spoke her name several times without response; she clung trembling to the mare’s neck. He stopped both horses, leaped down, and bodily pried Meiglan from her saddle. It seemed she didn’t much care what she hung on to, as long as there was something to hold. His ribs nearly cracked with the terrified strength of her arms. He stroked her disordered hair, murmuring wordlessly to soothe her. At length she gave a long, quivering sigh and her muscles relaxed enough so he could breathe freely again.
“There now,” he said softly. “You’re safe, Meggie. All over now.”
All at once her head jerked back and two huge brown eyes stared up at him in horror. “You—!” she gasped.
“Yes, just me. Nothing bruised or broken? You’re quite all right?”
She stumbled back from him, hands at her mouth, those great eyes even darker in contrast to the golden curls tangled around her face.
“It was very brave of you not to scream and frighten the mare even more,” he went on, wishing she wouldn’t look at him as if he had grown two heads and a dragon’s tail. “And you’re stronger than you look, to have hung on and not fallen off.” His ribs could attest to that. Her hands twisted together and she shivered again. “You’re not hurt, are you?” he asked, fairly sure that she was only shaken.
“I’m sorry!” she blurted out. “I’m sorry! Please believe me, my lord!”
Pol realized that her slightest transgression, whether her fault or not, was probably punished by her father as if she had purposely planned it to irritate him. And she expected the same harsh words from him.
So he said nothing at all. Instead he surrounded her gently with his arms. Anger warred with aching tenderness for this frail, frightened girl—and with growing knowledge that this was exactly what he was supposed to feel. The mare’s headlong panic was no accident. But had Meiglan planned it, or her father?
Eventually she stopped shaking and stepped back. She would not look at him as she whispered, “Please forgive me, my lord.”
“Don’t be silly,” he said, and cursed himself for the quick answer when she flinched. “I only meant it wasn’t your fault the mare bolted. You have nothing to be sorry for.”
She met his gaze again. “You won’t—you won’t tell my father?”
He looked down into the big brown eyes, trying to decide if their anguished entreaty was honesty or artifice. And suddenly he was ashamed that he had ever suspected her at all. Meiglan was innocent. She must be. However it had been done, her life had been at stake in this little plot. Would it have pleased Miyon, Pol thought furiously, if the girl had died in pursuit of him?
“I won’t tell your father anything except that you were very brave.”
“Oh, thank you, my lord,” she breathed, the passionate gratitude in her eyes confirming her innocence. Not even the surety that this fierce instinct to protect had been planned for him could keep him from feeling it. He told himself he would feel the same toward anyone so utterly without defenses.
19
Stronghold: 33 Spring
Rohan was irked by Andry’s absence from the audience granted Lord Barig and the two Giladan lawyers, but he was compelled to admire his nephew’s tactics. By riding off to Rivenrock today he showed his contempt for Prince Cabar’s claim to jurisdiction over the Sunrunner—while making sure he would know exactly what was said by deputizing Oclel to sit in. The presence of a mere faradhi instead of the Lord of Goddess Keep was an insult that Barig noted with a glower to which Oclel responded with a bland stare. Rohan hid his own annoyance and endured the first portion of the audience with admirable patience, all the while wishing he could be out riding in the fresh air. They sat in the Summer Room, named by Sionell years ago for tapestries depicting the Desert in that season; the hangings were a constant reminder of beauty Rohan would much rather have enjoyed in person rather than stitched in bright wool.
Oclel played his part to perfection. He listened to Barig’s case and the lawyers’ amplifications, pleasant face below a shock of fair hair revealing nothing. Rohan’s speculative gaze returned to him many times as he wondered what Andry had instructed him to say and when he was supposed to say it. At last the lawyers finished presentations of precedent nicely calculated to appeal to Rohan’s sense of tradition, and Barig summed up.
“It is therefore our position, your grace, that this person Gevlia, originally from Isel, by acting as a physician rather than as a Sunrunner, is punishable by the laws of Gilad. These have been formulated through hundreds of years by a score of noble princes and most recently by his grace my cousin Prince Cabar, and we of Gilad bless his wise rule over us and trust that it will continue for many long years to come.”
Rohan drew breath to thank Barig for his words, but Oclel beat him to it.