Melanie Rawn - Sunrunner's Fire

“The horses you bought from Chay must be coming along well,” Alasen observed as Riyan sat beside her. “You’re looking very happy.”

“They are, and I am. But I was thinking about the night you told us you were carrying Jeni.”

She took the baby from Sionell and laughed.

“Why?” Sionell asked. “What happened?”

Riyan glanced down the table. His father, Walvis, and Feylin were deep in discussion with Sorin about Feruche; they would not overhear. “Well, he—”

“Riyan!” Alasen scolded, and held her daughter high in the air to make her giggle. “Consider your father’s dignity.”

“He didn’t have any mind for it that night!” Riyan reached over and tickled Jeni’s chin. “Someday I’ll tell you the story, little one. When you can appreciate it.”

“But what happened?” Sionell insisted.

“He was pouring wine for Alasen when she just up and announced it, and he kept on pouring, and pouring, and—”

“All over my best dress!” Alasen finished. “Not to mention Skybowl’s best table silk, and the best Giladan rug, and—”

“And himself, I’ll bet,” Sionell supplied, grinning. “How did he react when he found out about you, Riyan?”

Alasen winked at her. “I’m reliably informed that his knees collapsed and he fell into one of Princess Milar’s little chairs so hard he splintered the poor thing. Sioned’s been trying to get him to pay for it for years.”

“So that’s why she teases him about it!” Riyan hadn’t known that story.

“I wonder what happened when Prince Rohan learned about Pol,” Sionell mused.

Alasen winked again, this time at Riyan so Sionell couldn’t see. “You’ll have to ask Sioned. Is Jahnavi going to serve us our dinner, or is he still primping in his new Skybowl tunic?”

Sionell jumped to her feet. “I’ll go see what’s keeping him.”

“Take Jeni with you. Her nurse will be waiting for her.”

When Sionell had hoisted the child into her arms and left them, Riyan shook his head. “She’s not subtle, is she?”

“About Pol? No. But then, she’s only fourteen. Wait a few more years and she’ll have acquired all the arts. She’s going to be pretty enough to get plenty of chances to use them, too!”

“I hope she doesn’t. There’s something very charming about her directness. I’d hate to see her become one of those simpering idiots who plague the Rialla.”

She nodded, green eyes dancing. “A plague I notice you avoided quite nicely this year by not attending.”

He groaned softly. “Alasen, please don’t try to marry me off!”

“Not at all. Your father and I are much too young to be grandparents.”

Jahnavi appeared then from the side door to the kitchens, trying not to stagger under the weight of a huge white tureen made of Kierstian ceramic. The boy presented the dish for approval, bowed when Riyan nodded permission to serve, and hefted it onto the table. Silver ladle and blue ceramic bowls were waiting; Riyan watched critically as Jahnavi portioned out the soup without spilling a drop. Sionell had returned to her seat next to Alasen, holding her breath as her little brother performed his first duties as Riyan’s new squire. She sighed her relief when he finished without incident, bowed, and returned to the kitchen for bread.

“Very nice,” Riyan commented so Sionell could hear. “A little lacking in polish, but done very smoothly just the same.”

“Thank you, my lord,” the girl replied formally. But then her irrepressible spirits made her grin. “He was so nervous! You were a squire at Swalekeep, and everybody knows what a stickler old Prince Clutha is for decorum!”

“A stick across my backside once when I spilled a tray of pastries,” Riyan reminisced. “But I doubt any such remedies will be necessary with Jahnavi. I was such a clumsy little mess!”

He did not mention that at eleven years old, Jahnavi had not yet entered into the tortures of puberty, with all its insecurities of abruptly long limbs, distressingly large feet, and humiliatingly uncertain voice. It was foolish to punish an adolescent for what he could not help. Riyan was determined to be more understanding than Clutha, who had been of the old school when it came to training his squires. Jahnavi was Riyan’s first foray into such training. Walvis and Feylin had entrusted him with their only son, and he resolved to justify their faith in him. He knew there would not be many young highborn boys given into his care; Skybowl was a small, remote keep, and he was only a minor athri. Both he and his holding were insignificant as far as the rest of the princedoms were concerned. But others’ perceptions troubled him not at all, for Skybowl was vital to the Desert in a way no one had ever guessed.

There was nothing here that would indicate Skybowl’s importance. The hall was a third the size of the one at Stronghold, and much less grandly decorated. The people were well-dressed and well-fed, but sat at trestle tables on benches instead of in individual chairs. Early evening sun shone through windows paned in clear glass, not the colored Fironese crystal of more fashionable keeps.

High on the walls were torch sconces rather than the branches of white candles Rohan had made popular at Stronghold, and the sconces were made of plain bronze, not silver or gold. Those at Skybowl lived in comfort but not luxury, and nowhere was there any indication of the wealth of dragon gold taken from nearby caves and cached in the lowest levels of the keep.

Jahnavi made swift, efficient work of the bread, then poured out wine and stood at the end of the high table, alert to the needs of those seated there. His parents treated him as they would any other squire; no one teased him or attempted to engage him in conversation. Everyone knew how important this first duty at table was to him. But not even his solemn dedication to his new status could survive when Alasen made her announcement.

It came about when Sionell leaned slightly forward and asked, “Lord Ostvel, we’ve been talking about how men react when their wives tell them they’re going to be fathers. How did Prince Rohan take the news about Pol?”

To Riyan’s astonishment, his father’s face went stone still. The smile that appeared soon thereafter was a trifle strained around the edges for a moment, as if it was a bad fit.

“I don’t really know, Sionell. I was at Stronghold, and they were all down in Syr with the army, fighting High Prince Roelstra.”

The girl looked disappointed. Alasen set down her goblet and smiled. “My dear, listen and watch carefully. You’re about to witness a man making a fool of himself.” To her husband she said, “My lord, I have the honor to inform you that you will become a father once more before the New Year Holiday.”

Ostvel performed according to expectation: his soup spoon clattered from his fingers into his bowl, overbalanced, and flipped onto the table, sending a splash onto his tunic. Jahnavi forgot himself and gave a whoop, quickly silenced by Walvis’ attempt at a stern glare. But the Lord of Remagev was soon grinning along with the rest of them as Ostvel struggled valiantly to recover his dignity, forfeit to a soup stain on his clothes.

“Alasen!” he finally bellowed, and silence erupted into laughing congratulations.

Riyan signaled to Jahnavi to refill all the wine cups. The castle folk down the hall, seeing the merriment at the high table, were attentively quiet as Riyan got to his feet and raised his goblet.

“The Princess Alasen!” he announced. “And my father the Lord Regent, who’s to be a father again!”

The echo rang out from more than seventy throats, and cups were emptied down those throats an instant later. Skybowl’s people had been, until three years ago, Ostvel’s people; Riyan knew that in many ways they still were. He saluted his father with his goblet and grinned.