"Rawn, Melanie - Dragon Star 2 - Dragon Token" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dragon Stories)

Tirel suddenly turned ashen. "Idalian, will he do to me what he did to our Sunrunner? Will he pretend I got sick and—"

"Absolutely not," he answered firmly. "You took care of that yourself, by asking him if he was going to isolate his own son for protection. And Natham's been in and out of here for days now—" "I like him better when he's out." "So do I, my prince." Idalian grinned. "But you see, if something happened to us he'd have some fast explaining to do about why it was just us and not Natham, too. So we're both safe."

For now, he did not add aloud. Yarin had made Tirel sign a document giving him complete power to rule until Prince Laric returned—a worthless piece of parchment, as it happened, for no one under the age of ten could

lawfully sign anything. Not that it meant anything in immediate terms for the prisoners.

Idalian thought it odd that Yarin had insisted on the signature. But there were reasons why it might become important from his point of view. The immediate result was power he, the nobles, and the ministers considered legal. Even if some or all of them knew that the signature of a seven-year-old was invalid, they could always claim an honest mistake made in ignorance.

But that was assuming Laric could retake his princedom, and Idalian knew that Yarin assumed nothing of the kind. The document was simply his way of adding legitimacy to his claim to Firon. And he would formalize that claim when he decided it was time to kill the young prince.

This thought chilled Idalian more than the snow outside. Unused to scheming enemies, a near-stranger to introspection, he must try to think as Yarin would, for the sake of the boy whose only protection he was.

Idalian had no illusions that he could rally influential persons to the boy and foil the Lord of Snowcoves before Laric's return from Princemarch. He kept up the fiction of believing that everyone thought them truly in danger of illness, but he knew as well as Tirel did that it truly was fiction.

AH things came down to one: for Yarin to succeed, Tirel must die.

But surely, Idalian thought, surely Yarin knew that the High Prince would never accept him as ruler of Firon. If Yarin defied him, Rohan could decree the princedom outcast. Cessation of trade would be a terrible hardship for Firon, which could not feed itself on its two major attributes—crystal and snow.

But if Rohan lost this war—

He shook himself mentally. He would not think about defeat. Tirel was alive. It had not occurred to the boy yet—and Idalian didn't mention it—that Yarin would keep him that way at least a little while longer, until he'd worked out a plausible method for killing him.

Idalian himself was another matter. But he didn't mention that, either. "We're safe," he repeated.

Tirel nodded, content for now. Waving a hand at the chessboard, he asked, "One more game?"

The squire gave a sigh. Nineteen years old, proficient at arms, with a war going on out in the great world— and here he was, sitting across a chessboard from a seven-year-old. But Idalian knew bleakly that there was no one else to care about the fate of a helpless little boy.

The chess set was a beautifully crafted one. Tirel's uncle Ludhil had sent it last New Year from Dorval, and the boy mostly played the pieces in elaborate battles across bunched bedsheets. Though chess was no game for a fretful child, Idalian had been teaching him for something to do. A reluctant pupil at first—it was much more fun to fly the dragons at enemy knights and imagine Sunrunners weaving spells around opposing castles— Tirel had applied himself after his cousin Natham demonstrated considerable proficiency for a ten-year-old.

Idalian smoothed the quilt flat and arranged the enameled copper pieces: twenty-three for each side in three rows on a nine-squares-by-nine board. Tirel dutifully recited the placement.

"Back row is dragon-knight-knight-Sunrunner each side, High Prince in the middle. Second row is castles at each end and squires between, except the Sunrunners don't have anybody ahead of them so they're free to work." Tirel fingered one of the dragons. It was a fierce little creature with arching wings, talons dug into the riv-erstone that formed the piece's base. "Idalian, why do the dragons stand behind the castles?"

"Because they need someplace to perch. Front row?" "All guards except for spaces in front of the Sunrunners. But I think they need protection, too, these days. Arpali did. . . ."

Idalian bit his lip at renewed mention of the dead faradhi. When the door was flung open, even the usually unwelcome entrance of Yarin's son and heir was a relief. "Are you still playing that silly old game?" Natham

scoffed, making himself comfortable at the foot of the bed without a by-your-leave. "My papa's new friend taught me the real way to play chess."

"Perhaps you'd like to teach us," Idalian suggested, gritting his teeth, but ready for any distraction.

"I don't think so." Natham smiled. He had a round, pretty face reminiscent of his aunt Lisiel, and his mother Vallaina's thick-lashed black eyes. Another six or eight winters, and those eyes would earn him grand success with the ladies—if Tirel let him live that long. The cousins had come to loathe each other during the long days of isolation.

"Why not?" the young prince challenged now. "I can learn anything you can!"

"Could not."