20
Stronghold: 33 Spring
Marron stood guard duty in the Great Hall during dinner, a tall staff hung with Miyon’s heavy orange banner wearing a groove in his shoulder. The evening had begun with another of Andry’s invocations to the Goddess. He had quite an audience; even the most humble castlefolk were permitted to dine in the presence of the High Prince, except for those actually serving the meal, on duty at the gates, or at posts of honor inside. It disgusted him that Rohan chose to break bread with the commonality instead of banishing them to the stables and kitchens where they belonged. He saw nothing of the easy sense of community among the people here, nothing of their affection for their princes that came from associating with them in every aspect of their lives.
When the meal was over, Marron would partake of the same excellent food, seated with the other servants at reset lower tables. But with his ancestry and his powers, by rights he should be sitting at the high table—now, this moment, eating off fine Kierstian plate and drinking from delicate Fironese crystal. That he would soon be able to do as he pleased at Stronghold was small comfort. He had had enough of playing lowly servant.
The strain of this charade was wearing on his nerves. Constant vigilance to make sure the face presented was not his own was bad enough. It was exacerbated by the equally nerve-wracking alertness required to stay out of range of those Sunrunners whose diarmadhi blood made them sensitive to the spell he had spun around himself. And on a more personal level, he was damned sick and tired of following orders and being a good boy.
He had taken this duty night after night so that Mireva and Ruval could have time to make further plans and still know what went on at meals. He had volunteered to sleep in the stables, ostensibly to guard Miyon’s precious horses, in reality to make sure no one came upon him when he slept and resumed his true shape. He had followed orders to escort Meiglan on today’s ride, though it had been chancy keeping out of Riyan’s way. He had frightened Meiglan’s horse with a brief but vivid conjure, giving Ruval time to sneak up to one of the caves for who knew what purpose. He had succeeded in every task given him—other people’s tasks that gained other people’s ends. He had endured years of bowing to that bitch Chiana, and after this spring of consorting with lowborn guardsmen he’d had enough. The disguises would be over with sooner than Mireva or Ruval thought.
He absorbed the details of the Great Hall with a discerning eye. Intimately familiar with Swalekeep’s ancient elegance made a bit garish by Chiana’s taste, he found Stronghold a marvel of classic beauty and strength. Only the best for High Prince Rohan, he told himself sourly. Exquisite dinner service, magnificent tapestries, furniture carved of the finest Syrene woods, candles from Grib giving soft white light instead of oily, smoking torches—though this was a warrior’s castle, always battle-ready, it was also that of a prince.
Marron was a prince. And before he was done, he would be High Prince in his grandfather’s place, with the castles of two lands to choose among for his residence. He shifted the banner from the bruise on his shoulder and, after a moment’s consideration, decided to spend spring at Dragon’s Rest, summer at Castle Crag, autumn at Feruche, and winter here at Stronghold. There would be pleasure trips to Radzyn and other places as he desired, and Elktrap would make a fine hunting lodge. . . . He grinned to himself. If Mireva and Ruval thought he would meekly accept Feruche as his only payment for all he had endured, they would have to think again.
His stomach growled a demand for dinner, and the Tiglathi guard standing nearby with his lord’s banner glanced over with a sympathetic smile. Marron gave a little shrug in reply. Tonight’s gathering was not the grand banquet ordered up for Miyon’s arrival, and so music and dancing would not follow into the night. But the highborns were taking a long time over their taze. With the rumors of the Sunrunner’s death in Gilad, it was amazing that a formal meal was taking place at all. He would have thought they’d all eat in their rooms.
The food here was spectacular, even that served to the common folk. The flesh Marron had lost at Tiglath from unaccustomed physical labor was returning to his belly. He wondered enviously how these Desert people kept their figures; Rohan had the waistline of a man half his age, and the High Princess showed off a lissome shape tonight in a simple blue dress that slid along her like water.
Marron changed his stance again in irritation as the squires went around with still more pitchers. Then he squinted up to the high table and frowned. It was not taze that was being poured but wine, and into tiny crystal glasses like the ones Chiana used for sweet fruit cordials. A toast, then. Marron grimaced. That fool Miyon had probably signed some agreement or other—not that any of it meant anything. Neither Rohan nor Pol would be around long enough to fulfill any bargains.
He caged his impatience as best he could, knowing that his own plan as well as Mireva’s required him to wait just a little longer. She wanted him to assist in Ruval’s challenge to Pol, but Ruval was not going to have the chance. Marron would be the one to claim that right. He would couch it in a demand for Feruche, but with Pol’s defeat not just that castle but all of Princemarch would be forfeit. And his dear brother could try as he might to dislodge him. Marron had what Ruval did not: Chiana’s trust and, through that, her army.
The noisy chatter in the Great Hall fell to whispers as Pol got to his feet and raised his glass. The crystal glowed dark sapphire blue in candlelight blazing from wall sconces and tables. Only the best here, Marron thought again—the Gribains demanded outrageous sums for their candles and these were the finest, burning clear and bright amid huge vases of flowers. Not that any candle would dare gutter in the presence of the High Prince, he added spitefully.
Pol waited for silence, Marron doubted he would make any remark about the dead Sunrunner. No one had confirmed the rumors, and the Giladan courier had known nothing useful when Ruval had casually questioned him a short while ago. Lord Andry was looking tight-jawed, Marron noted with a tiny smile. Sunrunner deaths were a thing he’d have to get used to.
Pol began to speak in a crisp, admirably carrying voice. Even at the far end of the huge hall, Marron heard every word.
“The death of my beloved kinsman, Lord Sorin of Feruche, has left a void in all our hearts. He was everything that a man should be, and more. He loved the Desert and its people.”
Marron smiled to himself. Rest assured I will cherish your princedom, too, Starborn, once it is mine.
“But most especially Sorin loved the wondrous castle he created. Feruche is his from its foundation to its topmost spires. Every stone was planned and placed by him. Sorin’s it is, and always will be.”
Mine it will be, and all else with it!
“His loss is a grievous one—to his family, his friends, to all of us. It is a sorrow to me to have the giving of Feruche. I had hoped Sorin would give it to his eldest son. But I think he would wish to see his beautiful castle ruled by a man who was close to him in friendship, who will make of Feruche what Sorin would have made of it himself. It is with confidence that I give it now to Lord Riyan of Skybowl.”
The blood roared in Marron’s ears and he shook with rage. It was Pol he must challenge for possession of Feruche, not some lowborn Sunrunner without a drop of prince’s blood in his veins, Pol who must own Feruche now that Sorin was dead. How dared he do this? He simply could not give it away, could not ruin Marron’s chance to thwart Ruval and gain everything for himself.
“No!”
His shout was drowned by cries of Riyan’s name as everyone lifted their glasses. But a moment later a woman shrieked in stark terror. Marron’s fury had overcome his sorcery. As he strode up to the high table, his second face and form shimmered away.