Ostvel had stared long and hard at the names, as if ink on parchment could give him sight of their faces. He knew what everyone else knew: all three had different fathers, young lords of surpassing physical beauty; all three had been born at Feruche—Ruval in 700, Marron in 701, Segev in 703; all three were thought long dead. What he and only a few others knew was that they had escaped the destruction of their mother’s castle in 704, carried off by loyal guards on horses he and Sioned and Tobin had ridden to Feruche, stolen from them in the chaos of Fire and panic that night. And he shared the knowledge with even fewer people that they were Pol’s half-brothers. These three, of all persons living, Pandsala would have killed if she could.
He glanced over to the carved wood paneling where a secret hiding place kept that parchment and certain other dangerous documents safe. Old Myrdal, long-retired commander of Stronghold’s guard, had found that niche and many other interesting things when she’d paid him a visit during the first year of his residence here. She had gone through Castle Crag stone by stone and her expert eye had found not only the sliding panel in Ostvel’s library, but hitherto unknown doors, passages, and stairs.
“I doubt Roelstra knew about any of this,” she had remarked as they explored a concealed corridor one afternoon, her limping steps assisted by a dragon-headed cane. “He killed his father, you know, when he was barely ten. Poison, it’s said. If he’d waited for a natural death, he might have learned Castle Crag’s secrets. But you can see by the dirt and the mess that these haven’t been used in a very long time. Probably over fifty winters.”
Ostvel had personally overseen the walling-up of every concealed passage, staircase, and chamber. The servants followed his orders, agape at the revelation of a world within the world they had known all their lives. But certain things he had left as they were, known only to himself and Alasen. The hiding place in his library was one of them; a similar secret compartment in the walls of her office was another—the reason she had chosen the room, in fact. And he left one passage clear, leading from their private chambers to those reserved for Pol when he was in residence, and thence to a concealed exit from Castle Crag. Myrdal had insisted on the latter. “You never know,” she had reminded him, “when you might need to get in or out in a hurry with no one the wiser.”
Not that Castle Crag had been even remotely threatened in centuries. Ostvel hoped that as he went deeper into the archives he would learn who had built it, when, and why. But for now he was more concerned with recent events, and thus returned his attention to the coffer containing documents from, the years just before Pol’s birth.
Roelstra and Ianthe’s alliance with the Merida was nothing new to him, nor was the record of their difficulties keeping those descendants of ancient assassins in line. He smiled a little as Roelstra’s anger spilled over onto parchment in venomous written accounts of the negotiations. Another congratulatory letter to Ianthe on news that she was pregnant again—with Marron, Ostvel deduced—was followed by a return note from her asking about rumors of Plague.
Ostvel set that page aside, unwilling to relive a spring and summer twenty years past, when he had helplessly watched Camigwen’s agonizing death. The next parchment was a copy of an agreement drawn up by Rohan and Roelstra setting the price for the dranath that had cured the Plague. Through his merchants, Roelstra had demanded and received a colossal sum for the herb that grew only in the Veresch. His following letter to Ianthe had been full of amazement and fury that Rohan had produced the required amount of gold. Neither had ever discussed that it had not come from emptying his treasury, but by using dragon gold.
But the cure had come too late for his Camigwen,
Rohan’s mother Princess Milar, Maarken’s twin Jahni, thousands of others—and Sioned’s unborn child. Ostvel’s jaw muscles tightened. Rohan had always suspected but never been able to prove that Roelstra had withheld the drug until certain of his enemies were dead of Plague. It was the Goddess’ blessing that Rohan had not been among them.
He dug deeper, finding a letter in which Ianthe exulted at the birth of her second son, another asking her father to arrange an attack on a trade caravan—and a copy of his testy reply suggesting she get her pet Merida to do it. He wondered at that, then realized that such an attack would bring out the garrison of Desert troops which had been stationed below Feruche at that time. Anything Ianthe wished Rohan to know could be told to the commander, who would tell his prince. There had been just such a gambit when dragons had flown over Feruche in 704; nothing was more calculated to bring Rohan to a place than the chance to see dragons. And when he had ridden up to Feruche, Ianthe had captured him.
Another several layers of parchment dealt with Segev’s birth, Ianthe’s subsequent ostentatious celibacy, her plan for getting Rohan out of Stronghold to view the dragons. Ostvel nodded; his guess had been correct, then. She obviously intended all at Feruche to know that the child she carried that year was Rohan’s; her smug letters to her father gloated on that very subject. But did anyone know this child was Pol? He held his breath when he came upon her last letter.
It’s rumored that Sioned is pregnant—although I saw no signs of it when she was my guest here. I hope one of my guardsmen fathered the child—did I send you details of how often they entertained her? If I forgot, remind me to tell you in person. You desired her at one time, I believe? So it should be highly satisfying to watch her public disgrace. Whatever she whelps, it will be my son and not hers who is Rohan’s acknowledged heir. Soon I will hold the next High Prince in my arms, and all will know him as your grandson. He’ll rule the Desert after we’ve disposed of Rohan, Maarken, Andry, and Sorin—and anybody else who might claim either land or stand in his way. I’ll write again after delivery of our little shining star. And who knows—he might even inherit the Sunrunner gift that appears in Rohan’s family!
How odd, he mused, that Ianthe had used the word Sioned had chosen as the boy’s name. “Pol” meant “star.” Ostvel reached into the coffer once more. Its final contents consisted of a bit of torn parchment bearing words in Roelstra’s hand: Born to my daughter Ianthe, a son, my grandson, heir to Princemarch and the Desert, the next High Prince. May he live a hundred winters and destroy an enemy during each of them—especially his elder brothers.
Ostvel shivered. What a legacy to leave a child. A legacy Pandsala had sought to fulfill, even to planning the murder of her own nephews, Pol’s half-brothers.
But they still lived. They would have to be found and their threat eliminated. They were too dangerous. With a few exceptions—gentle Danladi, quiet Naydra, cowed Moria and Moswen—Roelstra’s offspring were uniformly ambitious, arrogant, and scheming. Thirteen of the sisters were dead, but one still lived who was definitely her father’s daughter.
Chiana was at last a princess in fact. Her marriage to Halian of Meadowlord had given this formerly powerless (therefore relatively harmless) woman a taste of ruling a whole princedom. Chiana had in two brief years grasped as much of her husband’s power as she could. When Clutha died, she would rule, not Halian. Ostvel suspected she would never rest until her son, born this past spring, was High Prince. Though all Roelstra’s daughters had renounced any claim to Princemarch for themselves and their heirs, Chiana had been only a child at the time and could always say she had not understood what she had signed.
Goddess help them all if she or anyone else ever found out that Pol’s right came from Roelstra’s blood in his veins, not just Rohan’s conquest. Ostvel mentally listed those who knew: himself, Rohan, Sioned, Chay, Tobin, Myrdal, and one servant at Stronghold. Not even Andrade had known. If Sioned had her way, no one would ever know, especially not Pol. He doubted the wisdom of never telling the boy the truth, but it was not his decision to make.