"Yes, my lord."

He smiled again. "Meggie, my name is Pol. Say it for me."

She did so, shyly. Feminine instinct roused for the first time in her life and she knew as she said his name that he would kiss her again.

Chapter Twenty-seven.

Rivenrock Canyon: 35 Spring.

Ruval pressed his back to the ragged wall of the cave, breathing hard. He had just used hated sunlight for the fifth time that day, trying to find Mireva. There had been nothing from her, not the slightest whisper. He had been about to search on the noonday sun when Pol's acceptance had come to him, a declamation powerful as a storm wind through pines. The satisfaction of having an affirmative answer at last had not survived his failure to find Mireva. Now it was getting on toward sunset. Soon the sky would blacken and the stars, would pock the night. He must accept that he would face Pol alone.

Alone.

He whipped back rising panic with pride in his lineage, his powers, and his training. He would win. Mireva had chosen him as her instrument of vengeance against all Sunrunners. He would confirm Mireva's choice, avenge his mother, sit in his grandfather's place as prince at Castle Crag. Roelstra had failed, and Ianthe, to break Rohan's power. They had been cunning-but Ruval possessed knowledge they had not. He knew how to kill Pol, and in a way no one would ever suspect.

So he scoffed away trepidation and settled once more on a little shelf of stone at the cavern mouth, eating the last of his meager provisions as the shadows lengthened. He didn't much like the canyon, though it would be a magnificent arena for his victory. The shadows carved deep into the rock walls were black and silent, like eyes disguising secrets. The cave he rested in was littered with the leavings of countless dragon generations-skulls with staring sockets where eyes should have been, shattered sh.e.l.ls half-blackened by fire. A stiff, leathery bit of wing had fluttered in the afternoon up-draft that swept through the canyon, startling him into a cry that echoed from wall to wall outside. He set himself to planning the eradication of every dragon now living-he'd discovered they were fine sport, and old Prince Zehava had had the right idea about proving prowess by killing the great beasts. But, more than those things, he disliked the feeling he got in this place where dragons had been. It was their place, not his; he intended that every grain of sand in the Desert and every handspan of soil on the continent belong to him alone.

Just before the sun vanished, he sifted dranath dranath into his wineskin and drank it down. The drug bolstered his courage, gave new strength to his blood. Very softly, Ruval began to laugh. The sensuous haze of the drug rippled through his body, and then the welcome sensation of power. He clenched sand in his fists, let it trickle through his fingers, admiring the sparkle of golden dust visible even in the dimness. This, too, was power. Ruval decided to let Rohan live for a time, to feel the agony of loss and failure Ianthe had known. Then he would die, and all his family with him. Princemarch, the Desert, the gold-everything would be Ruval's. into his wineskin and drank it down. The drug bolstered his courage, gave new strength to his blood. Very softly, Ruval began to laugh. The sensuous haze of the drug rippled through his body, and then the welcome sensation of power. He clenched sand in his fists, let it trickle through his fingers, admiring the sparkle of golden dust visible even in the dimness. This, too, was power. Ruval decided to let Rohan live for a time, to feel the agony of loss and failure Ianthe had known. Then he would die, and all his family with him. Princemarch, the Desert, the gold-everything would be Ruval's. And And the t.i.tle of High Prince. the t.i.tle of High Prince.

With the first stars came the call of dragon horns. Ruval stood, brushed off his hands, and smiled. He needed no one. He was alone, but it was better so. Everyone would see that his were the greater powers, and bow to him as sorcerer and prince. It was the moment his mother had craved and been cheated of. He would kill Pol with her name on his lips.

The setting sun blooded the Desert, turning the swells and hollows of flower-strewn sand to waves in a dark crimson sea. Sioned rode with her husband behind their son, watching the light redden Pol's hair until it was almost the same firegold as her own. She could sense other presences behind her, riding by twos-Chay and Tobin; Maarken and Hollis; Tallain and Sionell; Walvis and Feylin. Miyon rode with Barig, Arlis with Morwenna. Rialt and Edrel brought up the rear. Ruala and Riyan were missing-she was still shaken and though he fiercely wanted to witness the battle, Pol had ordered him to stay with her. Andry and the Sunrunners Oclel and Nialdan had also stayed behind. Meiglan, like Pol, rode alone. She had been the subject of a heated discussion that afternoon between Sioned and Rohan.

"Well, he can't marry her." They had just seen the pair from their windows, strolling the gardens.

"Has it occurred to you that he may actually love her?"

"Impossible! She's not what he needs. Look at her, keeping him wandering around down there when he ought to be reviewing the Star Scroll-if she cared for him at all, she'd-"

"Sioned, it's in her eyes whenever she looks at him. And he looks at her-"

"Oh, yes, I've seen it," she said derisively. "He plays the big, strong, protective male with her. G.o.ddess preserve me from imbecilic masculine fantasies! Pol doesn't need some delicate little flower who'd be crushed by the first stiff breeze. He needs a wife and a princess. And he knows what kind of woman he ought to Choose."

"You mean the kind of woman you think he ought to Choose."

"Why are you defending her?" she exclaimed. "Meiglan could never comprehend even the smallest part of Pol's work as a prince!"

"Did you ever think that perhaps he doesn't need what I did in a wife? I may have required a living flame-but not every man needs that kind of woman."

"You'll never convince me he needs some shatter-sh.e.l.led little fool who never opens her mouth except to whimper!"

"From what you yourself said, it seems to me she did pretty well against her father this morning."

She scowled. "That has nothing to do with it. She's wrong for him."

"Pol's not five winters old anymore, Sioned. He's a grown man ent.i.tled to make his own decisions."

"And his own mistakes?" Sioned swung on him furiously. "I won't let him do something that would ruin his life!"

He replied with the deceptive mildness that would ordinarily have been warning enough. "My father would probably have considered you you a mistake. But my life has hardly been ruined." a mistake. But my life has hardly been ruined."

"I won't allow it, Rohan. He's not going to marry her."

At last his patience gave out. "If he does, you'll d.a.m.ned well have to get used to it! And don't make him choose between you," he finished. "You might not like the result."

Now she stared down at her gloved hands on the reins, ashamed and afraid. She knew there had been women in Pol's life-unimportant ones, known in pleasure but never in love. They didn't matter. But his Choice of a wife mattered desperately. She could have given him to Sionell, or someone like her. Had he Chosen a woman of strength and intelligence and ability, she could have let him go-not gladly, for no mother ever relinquishes an adored son without regret. Much as Tobin loved Hollis, she had privately confessed twinges of sadness at no longer being first in her son's heart. Sioned a.s.sured her that this was only natural. Now she was feeling the same things. But it would not have been so bad if only he had fixed on a woman worthy of him.

Meiglan was not. She was not worthy to take Sioned's place either as the most important woman in Pol's life or as the next High Princess. And Sioned was terribly afraid that the girl would indeed become those things.

She fretted at her emotions as she would at a sore tooth all during the ride-until she realized that this was exactly what she should not be doing. All her thoughts and energies must be directed toward what would happen at sunset. There would be time later to dissuade Pol from a disastrous marriage.

Sioned calmed herself just in time; the dragon horns sounded at the canyon mouth, startling her. She hadn't even noticed that they had arrived at Rivenrock. Quickly she scanned the area, looking once again for traps. There were none that she could see. She considered searching the area by the light of Sunrunner's Fire, but Rohan had been adamant: this battle must be Pol's from beginning to end. She accepted that. She had to.

Chay and Maarken rode forward to repeat the call of the horns. Pol sat his stallion like a statue as they pa.s.sed him, barely nodded when they turned their horses smartly in unison and bowed to him. Chay came to a halt next to Rohan, and Sioned heard him murmur as he slung the horn over his shoulder, "d.a.m.ned thing always leaves me winded. But, G.o.ddess, the sound sound of it!" of it!"

He was sixty winters old and his dark hair had gone silvery, and a tight grin emphasized the lines scoring his face. But out of his eyes looked the fierce young warrior who had fought beside Prince Zehava and won his daughter, who had ridden with Rohan to defeat Roelstra's armies, who had been Battle Commander of the Desert for thirty-eight years. Sioned felt her spirits lift slightly. Power was in Sunrunner skills and sorcery, in gold and in cunning, but most of all it was in the quality of the people who had been given to her and Rohan and Pol.

A shadow appeared high on the canyon wall: tall, lean, the shape of a man blacker than the cavern he had emerged from. In his hand a sword gleamed like steel lightning. He paused, making sure he possessed the attention of all, then made his way lithely down the slippery stones.

Pol gestured with one hand, and Edrel sprang off his horse, running forward to hold the great stallion's reins while Pol dismounted. The others rode up to form a half-circle. Hollis' braids shone like plaited gold; Tallain's smooth shock of fair hair glinted like a mail battle coif; Meiglan's curls clouded pale and misty around her white face. But the tinge of red clung to Pol's hair, and as he approached his parents his eyes were entirely blue without a hint of green-and he looked like Rohan and Sioned both. Not like Ianthe at all.

And yet as he stood between their horses, looking up at them with calm and confidence, the clarity of innocence was gone. Replacing it were knowledge and purpose-grim things, both of them. Mourning, Sioned reached down to touch his cheek, the place where her own face wore a scar.

Rohan was the one who remembered the rules. "Insist on the traditions that will help you-and don't allow any of the rest." He gave Pol the wineskin strapped to his saddle. "Dranath."

Pol nodded. He looked steadily up at Sioned, wanting to speak but just as obviously unable to find the right words. She summoned a smile and brushed back his hair-gesture from his boyhood, inappropriate to a man. She did it anyway. He caught her hand between his palms for a moment before pressing a kiss of loving homage to her fingertips.

He left them to speak soft words to Edrel. Then, after taking several steps toward the canyon, he paused once to look back over his shoulder. Not at Sioned or Rohan: at Meiglan.

The sudden glinting smile was for her, no one else. The look he received in reply was of such glowing translucence that it lit the sunset. "You'll d.a.m.ned well have to get used to it!" "You'll d.a.m.ned well have to get used to it!" echoed Rohan's voice. Abruptly Sioned remembered Pol's description of a vision in Fire and Water near the old Sunrunner keep on Dorval. echoed Rohan's voice. Abruptly Sioned remembered Pol's description of a vision in Fire and Water near the old Sunrunner keep on Dorval. "It was just my face, Mother-I was expecting to see someone else with me, the way you saw Father. But it was only me, wearing a prince's coronet. In a way, it was a little lonely." "It was just my face, Mother-I was expecting to see someone else with me, the way you saw Father. But it was only me, wearing a prince's coronet. In a way, it was a little lonely." And perhaps that was how he was meant to rule, even And perhaps that was how he was meant to rule, even wanted wanted to rule: alone. If so, Meiglan was the perfect Choice for him. She tightened her grip on the reins as Ruval's boots crunched through the rocky soil at the canyon mouth. Pol should not be thinking of Meiglan. He should be concentrating on the battle. Yet he loved her, and she him. Just as Miyon had planned. to rule: alone. If so, Meiglan was the perfect Choice for him. She tightened her grip on the reins as Ruval's boots crunched through the rocky soil at the canyon mouth. Pol should not be thinking of Meiglan. He should be concentrating on the battle. Yet he loved her, and she him. Just as Miyon had planned.

Pol turned to face his half-brother with his perfect calm intact. What he had seen in Meiglan's face had evidently reinforced his confidence. Sioned had seen it, too: innocent faith, blind trust. No striving, no blaze of a brilliant mind, no real strength. Only love. Sioned hoped it would be enough.

"Why does it happen this way?"

Rohan's whispered bitterness startled her out of her own. His face was as composed as Pol's, but his eyes were open wounds. "What do you mean, beloved?" She made her voice gentle, forbidding fear to sc.r.a.pe the words raw.

"This," he repeated. "Always. One man battling another."

Himself against Roelstra, Maarken against Masul, Pol against Ruval. Whole princedoms distilled down to two men. "Better one battling one than thousands battling thousands," she answered softly. It was the High Princess speaking, not the woman who had watched husband and nephew and now son go forth to their small, private wars.

He glanced at her, murmured that she was right. But one look at his eyes and she knew she was wrong. There was another combatant here, one who could not join in the actual fight but who would nonetheless partic.i.p.ate in every attack and counterthrust-even though the battle would be conducted with powers he did not possess. Rohan would feel it all, take it into himself as if this small war between two men was being fought inside his own flesh. His bones and his blood and his brain would become a battleground, for he was the kind of man and the kind of prince who pulled conflict into himself, who was willing to make his own being its focal point. He internalized war, as if he had swallowed fire.

Sioned ached for him, for the impulse that made him bring battle unto himself for resolution. It was the price of his vast patience. He waited for the fire to be brought to him, then absorbed its violence into himself. It was the measure of his vast strength that no war had yet broken him.

But Pol would never be that way. His battles would rage externally, treated as invading enemies who might storm his citadel of self but would never batter him down. He would not swallow the fire; he would become become fire. fire.

Shadows darkened the canyon and the first stars appeared in a deep blue sky. Pol walked forward, the colors of him so strong they were almost an aura around him. Aleva, Aleva, the Star Scroll called it; the circle of fire proclaiming power. the Star Scroll called it; the circle of fire proclaiming power.

But the same shone around Ruval's dark head. Amethyst and ruby and dark sultry garnet, they were opaque colors, lightless though not lifeless. As surely as Pol's bright pale colors accented by emerald shimmered just on the edge of her Sunrunner's vision, so did Ruval's darkness swirl in subtle patterns of force. Sioned reached one hand instinctively to her husband, felt his firm grip, and silently pleaded that he would not let go until it was over.

Pol had not seen the sunset scarlet of the Desert as Sioned had. Instead of blood, he was reminded of fire. In his imagination it rippled across the dunes, making the flowers and tall dry gra.s.ses separate small torches. When the sunlight vanished over the Vere Hills to the west, the flames did not die out; they only paled on their leap into the sky. The stars ignited one by one-the first ones far away in the near-blackness over the Long Sand-then spread like wildfire. Much as he loved the verdant valley of Dragon's Rest, he sometimes hungered for this desolate sweep of sand and sky, this land his ancestors had fought for and kept. He wondered if their spirits hovered about him on the slight breeze, watching as he approached his own battle for their Desert.

Ruval strode a few more paces toward him, then stopped. He wore a flowing russet mantle, clasped loosely around his narrow hips by a belt of heavy linked gold circles. His blue eyes had picked up the blackness of his high-collared tunic. Pol sized him up quietly-not for strength or speed or skill of the body, but for the qualities of mind and power. But those things were forgotten as Ruval lifted both tanned, long-fingered hands.

He wore Sunrunner's rings. Ten of them, set with jewels.

The blue-black eyes laughed as Pol stiffened in outrage, the mocking glint in them saying, And who's to deny me, princeling? And who's to deny me, princeling?

But for just an instant, there and gone so fast Pol barely knew it had happened, it was not Ruval he saw standing before him. It was Andry.

A casual flick of one finger, and flames blossomed from a boulder on Pol's left to light the s.p.a.ce between them. He looked into his half-brother's eyes, searched his face for any hint of similarity between them-and thanked the G.o.ddess that his father's blood was so strong in him that there was no resemblance at all. He felt no call of kinship, no pull of shared origin. He wondered briefly if echoes of his own face in Ruval's would have made this harder.

He conjured answering Fire on a large stone to his right. The area was well illuminated now, light seeping into the craggy stone face of the canyon mouth. How many days since he rode here with his oh-so-clever plan for Meiglan in mind? He felt a hundred years older now. Knowledge had changed him.

So had Mireva. He shied away from that memory, and the need for a cleansing image sent his thoughts to Meiglan. It was surprising to realize that she, too, had changed him with her trust and faith. She asked nothing, demanded nothing-because in her eyes he was already everything that could protect and cherish her, everything he had always wanted to be: a true prince and Sunrunner; powerful, strong, and wise. Always before when he had looked at a woman and wondered what it might be like to have her as his wife, he had considered the issue only in terms of himself. His His wife, wife, his his Choice, Choice, his his marriage-as if he was the only one involved. With Meiglan, the only way he could explain it to himself was that when he looked at her, he wanted to be marriage-as if he was the only one involved. With Meiglan, the only way he could explain it to himself was that when he looked at her, he wanted to be her her husband. husband.

There was a serenity in that, unexpected and welcome, a sureness of heart that matched his faith in his power. Not arrogance, not vainglory, but simple awareness that whatever must be done, he had the strength to do it. So he faced Ruval with unfeigned serenity, waiting.

"The smart thing to do would be to kill me where I stand," Ruval said. "Or have one of them do it for you." He gestured toward their audience, standing nearby beside their horses, forming a rough semicircle.

Pol nodded agreement.

"But you're not smart, Pol. You're honorable." He sneered the word.

"I wouldn't want to disappoint anyone." Pol hesitated slightly. "You say Roelstra was your grandfather, Ianthe your mother. What proof can you offer?"

Ruval's face betrayed surprise. He had not been expecting a challenge of this nature at this late date. He took a small gold coin from one pocket, and tossed it at Pol. "You'll recognize my grandsire's face."

Holding it between thumb and forefinger, he asked in honest amazement, "Do you seriously expect me to compare profiles?"

The coin sprouted tiny, cold flames. In them Pol saw a roomful of gold lit by a single torch held high by a very beautiful, very pregnant woman. His heart stopped, then raced: Ianthe.

"A small trick," Ruval said negligently as the flames flickered out. "But I'm sure you're aware that such a memory could only be conjured by one who was there to see it. Who else would Princess Ianthe show her gold to but her eldest son? Gold your father provided in exchange for dranath dranath to cure the Plague." to cure the Plague."

Pol struggled to recover from stunned astonishment. The display had been impressive, not only in its casual power but in its effect on him: his first and probably only sight of his mother. Pregnant. Carrying him. him. His fingers felt welded to the coin, even though the flames had held no heat. His fingers felt welded to the coin, even though the flames had held no heat.

"Satisfied?" Ruval demanded.

"I-" He cleared his throat. Ruval had made it all too easy to put the right tremor into his voice. "Is there anything that will content you other than this battle?"

His half-brother looked interested. "What did you have in mind?"

"Land. A castle. Perhaps Feruche, which your brother wanted enough to die for-"

"You're that frightened of me?" Ruval laughed. "Oh, I'll have Feruche, all right. And Dragon's Rest and everything else you own-especially Castle Crag."

"And if I refuse this battle?"

"Back down in front of all these people?"

"You have no army, now that Chiana is out of the way. You'd lose a war."

"Andry used the more benevolent ros'salath ros'salath at Dragon's Rest. Make war, or even attempt to kill me here with treachery, and I'll show you its true power." at Dragon's Rest. Make war, or even attempt to kill me here with treachery, and I'll show you its true power."

Pol bit his lip and was sincerely glad that his cousin was absent tonight. Evidently the Star Scroll had not taught him the fatal version. "I agreed to meet you here-I didn't accept formal challenge."

"I noticed that in your wording," Ruval commented. "Allow me to convince you. If you refuse, I'll reveal the Desert's most cherished secret."

The blood froze in his veins. "And that might be?"

"Gold." He waved to the canyon behind them. "Unlimited, secret gold. Dragon gold! I know about Skybowl. In the memory of that coin is the smelter there. Accept my challenge, Pol, or Miyon and Barig will soon know the truth-and you'd have to kill them to keep them from spreading the knowledge to every other princedom."

"It seems I have no choice." He hid his relief and tossed the coin back at Ruval with what he hoped was a good show of false bravado.

"None whatsoever," Ruval replied cheerfully.

Pol pulled his shoulders straight and asked, "Shall we settle on the rules for the ricsina? ricsina?"

Ruval's brows arched. "So you have have read the Star Scroll." read the Star Scroll."

"Certainly. Haven't you?"

"As much as Mireva could steal, from Andry's copy. Where is he, by the way?"

"Does it matter?"

"I suppose not. But he would have enjoyed watching you blunder around with spells you don't understand. You're not his favorite person."

"Granted. Well, shall we begin?"

"All Elements," Ruval said briskly. "And the two of us only. No other people. I don't need anyone else." He smiled. "You can't win, you know. There are things about sorcery that can kill you if you use them incorrectly."

Pol glanced away. "Agreed," he whispered.

"I also claim no weapons, no physical touch."

He didn't bother to hide his chagrin; there were several knives about his person that would have been useful if that rule had not been invoked. "I didn't expect an honest battle from you. But you're the one who can't win. Princemarch is mine, and you're going to die."

"I'll write that on a slip of parchment and burn it in the oratory at Castle Crag in your memory," Ruval grinned.