Mydral thumped her cane on the stone. “I’ve had enough of this piece of filth,” she announced. “Get her out of my sight.”
Pol and Maarken started for Mireva, Andry a step behind them.
“Three strong young men to guard one poor, helpless old woman?” she mocked. “You must fear me even more than I thought.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Pol told her. “They’re coming along to make sure I don’t kill you on the spot.”
“Do you think you could?”
He smiled with fatal sweetness. “I know it. But I wouldn’t want to deprive you of the sight of Ruval’s death.”
They took her belowstairs. There were people in the hallways now, returning to their interrupted sleep at Chay’s order, eyes popping with curiosity. Not only did this ordinary-looking old woman merit an extraordinary escort, but three small fingerflames of Sunrunner’s Fire lit their way down the stairs. Pol knew that before anyone’s head rested on a pillow again, word would spread throughout the castle. Everyone would believe that the threat was gone, whatever it had been, and they were safe. His father had that effect on people.
As he descended the cellar stairs behind Mireva, he realized that his own apprehensions had eased. Goddess, how cunning Rohan was. First he had shown Pol the Star Scroll with its spells to work with and its traditions of the rabikor. Then had come the revelation about Ianthe to let him know that he was Ruval’s equal in power if not in formal training. Now Mireva was rendered helpless, and by an innocuous piece of steel wire that would interfere with any attempt to use sorcery; there would be no powers but his own and Ruval’s when the challenge came. Tension still coiled in his belly, but Pol knew he would face the man unafraid. His father had given him that.
And his mother. Sionell was right. It must have cost Sioned her soul to tell him. And he had repaid her with cruelty. He would make it up to her with more than the brief words he’d been able to manage earlier. To Princess Ianthe he might owe his existence, but to his mother he owed his life.
And to Sionell, the humblest of apologies.
“Here,” Maarken said, breaking into Pol’s thoughts. “Grandfather Zehava showed me this when I was little. It’s where he kept those rare idiots who offended him twice.” He gestured Mireva into the tiny room with a sarcastic flourish. “Before he personally escorted them out to the Long Sand and left them there.”
“Why not do the same for me?” she asked.
“You heard his grace,” Maarken reminded her. “He wishes you to watch your last hope die.”
She smiled. “If he does, which is by no means certain, it won’t be until he’s settled the debt of Segev’s death with your murdering bitch of a wife.”
Pol saw Maarken turn white in the sudden reactive blaze of conjured Fire. Then Mireva was pinned to the back wall by her throat.
“If you even so much as think harm against my wife or my children, I’ll kill you myself,” Maarken hissed, shoving her higher up the stone. “And I warn you, I am neither as powerful nor as civilized as my brother or my cousin. It would take me a very long time, and I would make sure every instant was exquisite agony. So guard even your thoughts, witch. Someone will be listening.”
Pol had seen death in Maarken’s eyes before, but not like this. Even Mireva was taken aback. Maarken let her drop to the stone floor, dazed, and spun on his heels. He left it to Andry and Pol to secure the door.
Pol made a swift visual inspection of the cell. It was absolutely bare, without so much as a blanket to lie upon or a piece of straw to set afire for light. There were no windows. The heavy iron door did not even have a slot for passing in food and drink. Evidently his grandfather had meted out a ruthless justice; once it closed, that door would open only to remove the prisoner for transport to a quick death in the trackless wastes of the Long Sand.
It occurred to him that probably in just such a room, Ianthe had imprisoned Sioned.
“There’s nothing here she can use, even if she could get her hands free,” Andry observed. “The way Rohan tied the wires, she’d slice her hands off at the wrist before she could get loose.” Andry regarded her for a long moment, then slammed the door shut with a clang. “So now we wait.”
Pol secured the lock. “It won’t take long.”
“Are you prepared for it? For what he’ll try to do to you?”
He thought his tiny fingerflame closer so he could see Andry’s face. “Don’t tell me you’re concerned.”
His cousin shrugged. “Better you as High Prince than Roelstra’s grandson.”
Pol kept reaction from his face. “I thought you’d see it that way.” Then he sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I wanted to thank you for your help tonight. You didn’t have to, but you did.”
“That’s right,” Andry said, nodding, and they started up the steps.
Pol’s next words came at even greater price, but he said them. “We worked well together. I think that shows we could continue to do so.”
Andry gave him a quizzical look. “What was it she said? ‘When dragons fly the seas instead of the sky’?”
“Why do you have to make things so difficult?”
“I have my duties and responsibilities. You have yours. If they clash—well, at least we won’t be accused of conspiring together toward complete tyranny. Isn’t that a desirable outcome? Won’t it be reassuring to the other princes?”
Pol stopped him with a grasp on his arm. “Stop this, damn it! Andrade and Roelstra were checks on each other’s power—and lifelong enemies. We don’t have to emulate them.”
“You’re a dreamer, cousin. You think of what could be. I must think in terms of that I know is to come.”
Pol kept hold of his temper with difficulty. “You keep mentioning this mysterious future. What exactly are you afraid of?”
For a moment he thought Andry might tell him. Then his cousin shrugged. “If you live long enough, maybe you’ll find out.”
His grip tightened. “You don’t think I’ll defeat Ruval?”
“On the contrary. I think you will. But you have other enemies. Stray diarmadh’im looking for revenge for killing their leader and their prince. Stray Merida—there are always stray Merida. Chiana cannot be discounted. Nor Miyon.” Andry paused. Then, with mock solicitude: “Tell me, if you end up marrying the girl, do you think the knife in your back will have his handprint on it—or hers?”
Pol let him go as if the contact burned him. “It’s a damned good thing you’ve been forbidden this princedom.”
“Remember that when the future I’ve seen comes to pass.”
They glared at each other by the angry flicker of two small flames. After a few moments Andry shrugged once again and continued up the stairs. Pol waited until he had regained control of himself, until the cellar door had opened and closed again behind his cousin.
“The last word—this time,” he vowed. “Never again.”
Fortunately, he had calmed enough to listen to what he said—and grimace. So much for what he thought he’d learned tonight. He had acted swiftly and decisively with Mireva, and he had hung on long enough for his father to carry out his plan. And that was the difference between them: Rohan had known exactly what he was doing and Pol had not. Pol had acted on instinct and emotion. His father worked from sure knowledge and patient reasoning, those things that were Rohan’s greatest strength.
Maarken might indulge in quick fury, but Pol must not. Particularly not regarding Andry, who seemed to have mastered the art of angering him. Nor, he realized suddenly, regarding this mysterious future threat. While he felt no duty toward Goddess Keep and none of the awed deference most people, especially Sunrunners, accorded its Lord or Lady, he could not but respect Andry’s certainty that this threat would appear. Pol was living testimony to the power of faradhi visions.
Patience. The ability to wait, to think things through, to act only when one understood. To use power and strength where they did the most good. To be certain of when, how, where, and why one acted. To be cautious always—and ruthless when necessary. To know exactly what to do. Rohan and Sioned had built peace on those qualities. He suddenly despaired of ever matching their wisdom.