"Do it yourself or not at all," Pol replied stubbornly.

The attempt was made, and Ruval toppled over on the sand, facedown. Pol swore and approached cautiously. His knee stabbed with every slow, suspicious step, repeating the fever pulse of his cheek wound. Ruval was barely breathing. His distress looked genuine enough-but Pol did not get within reach.

"Get up!" he ordered sharply, and coughed with the harshness of fiery air in his throat. He tossed his head to clear the sweat-thick hair from his eyes.

Ruval tried once more, pushing himself up onto hands and knees, head hanging as he fought for breath. Pol took a wary half-step back. His knee went out from under him and he fell with a gasp of pain.

Ruval was on him. And the face grinning ferally down at Pol was blond, pale-eyed-his own.

"Say 'please,' little brother." Ruval tugged Pol's injured leg to an excruciatingly painful angle. There was no need for any other restraint; the grip at his knee immobilized Pol completely. He moaned with the agony as bones ground together and tendons stretched to their limits.

"I'll keep this shape just long enough to kill your father," Ruval informed him, laughing softly. "Or maybe I'll wait until tomorrow, let them believe you won, and tonight celebrate victory between Meiglan's thighs."

He was was a fool for allowing Ruval to live. Too late to flay himself over it now. Pol ordered every muscle in his body to go limp. "Quick death-don't torment me-" He interrupted this craven speech with a hacking cough. a fool for allowing Ruval to live. Too late to flay himself over it now. Pol ordered every muscle in his body to go limp. "Quick death-don't torment me-" He interrupted this craven speech with a hacking cough.

His own face laughed with Ruval's voice, his own eyes shone with Ruval's triumph. "I told you to say 'please!' "

"Just tell me-why this way-you're my brother-would have given you-"

"By the Nameless One, are you really that stupid?" Ruval stared at him, and Pol felt the grasp on his leg ease a little. "You have many things that belong to me," Ruval explained as if to a particularly slow-witted child. "t.i.tles, honors, Princemarch-"

"Don't kill my father! Spare him-and Meiglan-" Time, he needed time. . . .

"It's a thought," Ruval admitted. "Worse than death to him, seeing me as High Prince. But she'd be happy to exchange a puling princeling for a real man. Yes, I might just let them live for a little while. If you beg nicely enough."

Steeling himself, Pol whispered, "Please."

Ruval grinned. "Again."

"Please!" It tasted of acid, but he said the word a second time.

"The sweetest thing an enemy can say!" Ruval reached up to brush the sweat from his brow, chuckling.

Pol twisted his body as fast as he could, slamming his good knee into Ruval's chest. The breath whooshed out of him and he pitched backward. Pol groaned and tried to stand, ungainly as a newborn foal. He couldn't. He crawled away from Ruval, staring at the flames encircling their narrow battleground. Hauling in a deep breath and telling himself that his knee must support him or he would indeed die in his own Fire, he lurched through the blaze and went sprawling.

He never knew how long he simply lay there, stunned. He wondered vaguely why no one had come to help him. Didn't they understand that it was all over? Where were his father, his mother, Meggie, Sionell? Why didn't they help him?

His hearing returned before his vision. Someone was screaming. He frowned, knowing something was wrong but unable to figure out what. Struggling to his good knee, he turned and beheld himself. The mirror was still ablaze, but the image was perfect. Two of him were outside the flames. Scant wonder no one had come to his aid. Which was really him?

It was a question that pierced him in unexpected ways. But he had no time for it now. Ruval was still alive. He glanced back to the half-circle of pain-ravaged Sunrunners and horrified n.o.bles, finding his father's face with surprising difficulty. But Rohan was not looking at him. He stared up at the firelit sky. Pol turned, searching, at last feeling the subtle flicker that should have alerted him long before this.

Dragon.

A real one, the color of the body dark and indistinguishable but the underwings shining reddish-gold by the light of the flames. A sire, come down from the Veresch for mating, huge and magnificent and thundering out his rage-and flying straight for them across the fiery sands.

Another scream was nearly lost in the shrieks of panic-stricken horses. They had turned skittish when Fire came, but dragons were something else entirely. Frantic hoofbeats told of their headlong rush for safety. Pol could not look away from the dragon. It was as if the legends were true, and those eyes had speared him from a distance, immobilizing him.

A p.r.i.c.kling at the edges of his senses warned him too late. Ruval was at work on the dragonsire. Pol cursed, torn out of his fascination, and wove his own colors into the light blazing from the sky and sand.

Starfire and groundfire, barely controllable as they raged through him, made the sear on his cheek a caress by contrast. He flung his thoughts toward the dragon. Ruval got there first by spells the Star Scroll never mentioned. But this was different from what he had done in early spring. The dragon did not fall helplessly from the sky. Pol saw the great wings fold slightly into a controlled dive, then spread to correct the angle of flight. The talons reached out-for him. He flattened himself to the ground and writhed into the sand for what little protection it could offer. He felt something in his knee tear completely apart and m.u.f.fled his scream of agony in the sand.

The wind of the creature's pa.s.sing brought a gust of heat from the canyon fire. But the talons missed him. He scrambled up onto his good knee and stared skyward, breathing heavily, astounded. No dragon would have been so clumsy in s.n.a.t.c.hing prey-and no dragon would have attempted to make prey of a man. However imperfectly, Ruval must be in possession of the dragon, controlling its flight.

And that made Pol so angry that the Fire-gold night around him turned the crimson of blood.

The dragon cried out, talons ripping at the wind as he fought for flight. His wings spread, folded, beat a desperate drunken rhythm to gain distance. But he could not break free. Compelled, faltering, he swept over the flames that singed his belly and came for Pol again, screaming.

Pol wasn't even afraid. He was too furious for that, or to feel the torture of his wounds. If Ruval could do this to a dragon, so could he. He had touched dragon colors before. He knew what the fierce, primal minds felt like. He marshaled his strength and a rage that should have crippled him. He lashed out toward the dragonsire that had missed him again and was wheeling upward on angry wings, bellowing his fury to the stars.

It was something like making the link that allowed him to speak with other Sunrunners-only there was nothing delicate or precise about the way his mind slammed into Ruval's and into the dragon's. It was questionable which of the three was the more enraged: Ruval at Pol's survival after the initial attack, Pol at Ruval's use of the dragon, or the dragon himself at these two puny beings who fought for control over him.

Hues no one had ever seen or named spun in an explosion of color that had the nearby Sunrunners screaming. Pol hung on. He and Ruval battled for the dragon as if it, too, was part of the victor's spoils. But as they fought, Ruval lost control of his shape-change, Pol's stolen features fading away to reveal his own.

And suddenly, faced once again by the "true" Ruval and not himself, Pol realized that this was all wrong. He was forgetting everything taught him by his father's example of wise patience. He was fighting the enemy on the enemy's own terms. He was becoming becoming his enemy: using power for its own sake. And worst of all, he was using the dragon as his tool. his enemy: using power for its own sake. And worst of all, he was using the dragon as his tool.

The beast screamed again, circling erratically above the Fire-strewn Desert as if his wings were not entirely his to command. The night spun in conflicting, burning colors, as if three blazing whirlwinds fought above the dunes and filled Rivenrock Canyon with unbearable light. Two of these had nearly merged, were nearly one. Pol was still apart, and knew he was about to lose this battle for possession of the dragon.

Ruval hungered for possession-of land, wealth, power. All would never be enough; for a man like that, there was no such thing as "all." There was only "more." He was not even like their grandsire, who had only amused himself with power. Ruval was as Masul had been: an embittered outcast, dedicated to exacting grim payment for perceived wrongs done him. But the pretender had been only a man. Ruval was a sorcerer. If he won this battle, Pol's would be only the first death.

Andry would be next-the only other person who could oppose him on his terms. G.o.ddess only knew what he would then do to Rohan and Sioned and those Pol loved-and Meggie- He shifted his mental and emotional stance, deliberately stilling fear that could only distract and harm him. It was the calm his father had taught him to seek at the Rialla, Rialla, a patience that allowed him to hear meanings within meanings. But now he listened to his own mind, his own heart. a patience that allowed him to hear meanings within meanings. But now he listened to his own mind, his own heart.

Into the place where fury had been he summoned his lifelong awe at the sight of dragons. He called up childhood memories of standing on Stronghold's ramparts as dragons filled the sky with the wind of their wings. He remembered that first ride into the valley of Dragon's Rest, how his mother had "spoken" with the dragon she'd named Elisel. He filled himself with dragon wings and colors and voices, his soaring joy at watching them, his delight when they flew in to Dragon's Rest and partook of the feast he gladly offered. He gloried in their strength and beauty and freedom, and even as the dragonsire swept down in another attack, Pol was smiling. Perhaps it was true that a dragon-sense had been pa.s.sed down from Zehava to Rohan to him, that his line truly deserved the t.i.tle of azhrei; azhrei; he only knew that he loved the dragons for reasons beyond himself. He belonged to them as surely as they belonged to Desert skies. he only knew that he loved the dragons for reasons beyond himself. He belonged to them as surely as they belonged to Desert skies.

Suddenly it was as it had been in the spring-an incredible whirl of power and colors merging with his own. There were no words, only emotions. But this time he felt not a dragon's dying anguish but a dragon's rage. Dimly, as if from a great distance, he sensed Ruval's faltering control-and the roar of the dragon echoed in his own heart as together they broke free.

For a few moments more Pol was was that dragon. The flush of new strength through blood and muscle was his; the powerful beat of wings, the rush of hot wind as he skimmed the flames that climbed the walls of Rivenrock. And he knew, not in words or coherent thoughts but in sheer savage emotion, what the dragon was about to do. that dragon. The flush of new strength through blood and muscle was his; the powerful beat of wings, the rush of hot wind as he skimmed the flames that climbed the walls of Rivenrock. And he knew, not in words or coherent thoughts but in sheer savage emotion, what the dragon was about to do.

The next instant he felt rocks digging fresh agony into his knees. Close enough to spray sand over him, almost to brush him with an outspread wingtip, the dragon swooped across the sand with talons outstretched. They dug into Ruval's mantle. There was a gush of blood and the sound of ribs cracking, and a single shriek. Pol tilted his head back, gasping for breath, transfixed as the dragon carried his prey up into the starry sky.

Days later, halfway across the Long Sand, they would find a charred heap of broken bones and Sunrunner rings and a half-melted gold coin bearing Roelstra's likeness.

Meiglan freed her arm from her father's grasp and ran headlong over the sand. She flung herself into Pol's startled embrace, still so torn between terror and joy that she didn't even know she was crying.

Rohan helped Sioned to her feet, ran his fingers anxiously over the crescent-shaped scar, livid against her white cheek. She gave a tiny smile to rea.s.sure him. Then she sank very calmly down onto the sand, whispering, "I-I feel a little faint."

Morwenna pushed herself up from her knees, swearing. Her head ached as if she'd been drinking strong wine since the New Year Holiday, her fingers felt scorched to the bone, and her body hurt so much she suspected the bones would come apart at the joints. "d.a.m.ned undignified position," she muttered as she struggled to stand.

Chay had kept Tobin upright during the battle only through main strength; she was limp, her eyelids fluttering. He swung her up into his arms and rocked her, calling her name frantically until sense returned to her face.

Maarken and Hollis knelt huddled in each other's arms, stricken, trembling. At length the agony of the a.s.sault on their senses faded. Walvis and Feylin helped them up. Maarken looked around, whispered his grat.i.tude, and clung to his wife with what remained of his strength.

Sionell turned from the sight of Pol and Meiglan's embrace. Tallain, holding her, didn't notice. He was staring at the Desert. The sand was still ablaze.

Rialt, with the virtue of practicality, had the presence of mind to send Arlis and Edrel running off to see if they could collect a few horses. None of the Sunrunners would be able to walk the whole way back to Stronghold.

Barig cleared his throat ponderously and said to Miyon, "Was this legal according to the rules agreed on?"

The prince replied, "Don't be a fool. A dragon isn't a weapon or a person. His grace won fairly." Though it seared the skin of his lips to have to say it.

Rohan looked up from where he knelt with Sioned cradled in his arms. He called Sionell over to tend her, then went to where Meiglan was helping Pol to his feet. The girl saw him first; she caught her breath and straightened defensively. Rohan realized that she feared him, but her trust that Pol would protect her was greater. She proved it by holding him tighter and meeting Rohan's gaze with a kind of apprehensive defiance.

Pol looked at him then, his eyes dim with exhaustion. It was clear that until that moment, no one had existed for him but Meiglan. Rohan repressed a sigh and, in a mild voice that fooled neither himself nor his son, said, "Will you kindly do something about this?" He gestured to the flames that scoured Rivenrock. "I really can't have you turning my princedom into a blast furnace."

Pol gave him a shaky smile. "Sorry. But I don't know if I can can stop it. Or even if I should," he added pensively. stop it. Or even if I should," he added pensively.

"Won't-won't it burn itself out soon?" Meiglan ventured.

"I suppose so," Rohan said. "Come to think of it, it does make a rather nice statement. Although setting your own beacon-fire comes somewhat in advance of your right to do so, Pol. I'm not dead yet."

The young man looked stricken. "Father-I-"

Rohan was surprised, but knew he shouldn't have been. For Pol, humor wasn't the weapon against impossible tension that it had always been for him. So he made himself laugh.

Pol relaxed at once. He even rallied enough to say, "It won't burn as far as Remagev-I think!"

"It's dry a few measures out from here, if memory serves," Rohan told him. "Not even this winter's rains made anything grow. But if it does does get to Remagev, get to Remagev, you'll you'll pay to rebuild it." pay to rebuild it."

"If Walvis lets me live long enough!"

Meiglan listened to the exchange with wide, bewildered eyes. Rohan smiled to hide his resentment of her presence. Had she not been here, he might have said to his son what he needed so much to say. Instead, he was forced to keep those words to himself. There might be time later to say them-and there might not.

There was a brief silence while father and son watched each other. Pol was the one to look away. "Ah, good-Edrel's found a horse. I doubt Meggie or our Sunrunners would make it back to Stronghold on foot. How's Mother?"

"Sionell's taking care of her." When he heard the tender nickname, his objections to Meiglan-concealed even from Sioned-were resolutely locked away. Pol had made his Choice. They would all just have to get used to it.

"How're your legs? Aside from that, you don't seem too much the worse for your little demonstration," he went on as casually as he could.

Pol shrugged off his concern. "I-have a few resources."

Rohan understood. The Sunrunners had been devastated by the lash of battle; Pol's diarmadhi diarmadhi blood had in some ways protected him. "I wouldn't vouch for that knee, though," he remarked. "And you'll have a scar on your cheek as a more permanent souvenir." blood had in some ways protected him. "I wouldn't vouch for that knee, though," he remarked. "And you'll have a scar on your cheek as a more permanent souvenir."

Pol touched his face, startled. Rohan wondered when he would realize that its shape and placement were almost identical to the one on Sioned's cheek.

"Yes. Well. . . ." Rohan said, then decided to leave them to each other and return to his wife. He had never been one to struggle overlong against the obvious.

Pol looked down at Meiglan, who had undertaken to support him. He smiled at her; so little and delicate, and trying to lend him her strength.

"I was so frightened," she whispered.

"So was I," he admitted frankly.

"You? Never!"

He gave a rueful laugh. "Come, let's find you a horse. And me, too-I hope a limp isn't my other souvenir of tonight-oh!" He looked around distractedly. "Meggie, do you see it? A little gold carving of a dragon-"

"Stay here. I'll find it for you." He swayed when she left him, barely able to balance on one leg. At last she returned with the piece. "Is this it?"

"Yes." He fingered it, held it up to the light. "Lord Urival gave me this a long time ago. It used to decorate the top of a water clock that belonged to my father."

"Yes, my lord?" Meiglan's face was all confused attention to his every word as she got her shoulder beneath his arm again.

But he could scarcely explain to her why Urival had salvaged it from the shattered remains of that elegant timepiece after Masul and Pandsala and Segev had died. Pol was now the last of Ianthe's sons. Hollis had killed Segev; Andry, Marron. Had it been Pol or the dragon who had killed Ruval? Urival had given him the little golden dragon the day of his death. "Talisman," he'd said with a grim smile. Talisman and reminder. Talisman and reminder.

Pol placed the carving in her palm. "Your first dragon, my lady."

She stared at it, then at him. "First, my lord?"

"My name is Pol. You'd better get used to saying it."

Six of the nineteen horses were found, one of them lame. All the Sunrunners stated emphatically that they were perfectly capable of using their own legs. A blatant lie; they were in such obvious need that not even Miyon made grumbling noises about the long walk. Rohan, who lifted Sioned into the saddle, told her to be quiet and be grateful. After a few measures she overruled her husband, slid from the saddle, and offered the mare to Meiglan. It was a gesture whose meaning was lost on all but a few.

Maarken, too, had recovered, and after giving over his horse to Feylin, roused himself to use the light of the newly risen moons to communicate with his brother at Stronghold. Andry's colors were strangely darkened, and he neither asked about events nor offered any comment. He merely agreed to have more horses sent at once, and withdrew into himself.

Maarken suspected that sight of Stronghold would reveal other momentous events. He gnawed on possibilities until Nialdan and several grooms rode up with fresh horses on lead reins. Beckoning the Sunrunner aside, he asked about Andry.

There wasn't a coin's weight of dissembling in Nialdan's entire soul. When he answered that all was well, Maarken knew he was lying. But the man was so obviously distressed that Maarken didn't press it.

When they finally reached Stronghold, Andry, Riyan, and Ruala were waiting on the main steps. All three looked sick with exhaustion. Maarken was so intent on trying to read his brother's face that for a few moments he saw nothing else. Hollis gripped his arm and whispered his name. Flung across the bottom steps was a dark, limp shape. Mireva. Dead.

Rohan dismounted and walked slowly to the corpse. With the toe of one boot he nudged it onto its back. When he turned to summon Pol with a glance, Maarken had the impression that his uncle's bones had turned to steel, his flesh to stone.

Pol stared down into Mireva's dead eyes. Then he backed away a pace or two, and with a brief gesture called Fire.

They all stood for a time watching the flames. Rohan was the first to climb the steps and enter his castle. The others followed. The corpse of the sorceress was left to burn in silence.

Chapter Thirty.

Princemarch: Autumn, 728.

The seas foamed blood-red, the tide thick with bloating bodies, each wave capturing yet another corpse from the sh.o.r.e. The castle was in flames. When night fell, the burning stones that had been Radzyn Keep would signal the carnage for a hundred measures all around. Perhaps it would be seen all the way to Graypearl across the water.

Perhaps Graypearl burned, too.

The victors plucked their own dead from the waves-tall, broad, dark men, fierce even in death. The bodies were laid out carefully near a strange, flat ship, stripped, washed, anointed with oils from copper flasks. Gold beads threaded through long beards were polished one by one, and more added in token of this battle. Some of the dead from castle and port were given to the sea-victor's offering of vanquished. Hundreds of them.

The horses left behind in the frantic flight from Radzyn were not the best, but they were still better than any belonging to the invaders. Saddles and bridles were studded with silver and decorated with thin, fluttering strips of beaten tin; this brave show did not hide the heaviness of their thick-haired, short-legged breed and its total unsuitability to the Long Sand. So that was why they had attacked Radzyn, he thought. Anguish stabbed his heart as he watched tack transferred to his father's beloved horses. At least the finest, strongest stock had been freed, driven into the Desert where they could later be recaptured. But it hurt even more to see foals slaughtered so that the mares would be unenc.u.mbered by nursing.

Prisoners were marched in chains to the death ship. Their captors had no interest in questioning them; they were shoved on board and made to kneel. The dead were then placed slowly, reverently, all with their heads toward the sea. Torches were lit and flung on deck. By their light, as oil on naked flesh caught fire, he saw gold-beaded beards shrivel away to reveal, in the instants before flames charred flesh, ritual scars cut into jutting chins slack now in death.