by Melanie Rawn
She rose from his side to a smattering of excited applause. There were just friends here, she told herself as she approached the fenath, people she knew, not the hordes of strangers her father had ordered her to play for at Castle Pine.
Miyon had tricked her at the Rialla, offering her up for public view at a banquet by presenting her with a new instrument. She had trembled all the way down the long white floor of the Princes Hall. As the first notes echoed through the huge chamber, his sleek malicious smile had practically paralyzed her. Out of tune. Purposely out of tune, at her father’s order, so that she must test strings and twist pegs until she thought she’d die of humiliation.
But tonight she would play for friends in the gentle intimacy of the Tapestry Room. None but kind, fond people here, people she knew and liked—even if she would never understand them, never be like them.
The new fenath was a spectacular instrument—carved, inlaid, jeweled, each of its fifty strings having pearl-headed anchor- and tuning-pegs. Even the little wooden hammers were decorated, a different gem sparkling from each so that while she played, the motions of her hands traced colors through the air.
Meiglan slid the hammers between her curled fingers and flexed her wrists. The first song she played was one she had heard Gemma humming yesterday; the princess smiled in delight. As Meiglan glanced through the strings at her audience, she savored the joy of bringing such pleasure. It had never been so at her childhood home of Gracine Manor, nor during the two years she had lived with Miyon. Back then she played only for herself, mercifully losing all consciousness of where and who she was in the ripple of the strings.
Pol had changed all that. She could not fade into the music when he was here to listen and sometimes add his rich voice to the songs her fenath wove. When she played for him alone, she knew only the movements of her hands and the glow in his blue-green eyes—so different from the self-absorption of her girlhood music. Gradually she had acquired the courage to play for small groups in private. The best times were when Lord Ostvel was here to accompany her with his lute and his voice that so perfectly blended with Pol’s. But though it was difficult to play at the Rialla—it reminded her of her father’s demands—she always did. She could deny Pol nothing and he was so proud of her music.
Tilal asked for a Syrene ballad remembered from his youth at River Run. She put the sticks down, rubbed her fingers back to suppleness, then plucked the strings with a rapidity that always startled onlookers. The width of the fenath had defeated her before she’d learned how to sway lightly back and forth, moving her feet only a little. Rohan had once told her she looked like a flower floating on a breeze and watching her was almost as lovely as listening to her.
It was a distinguished company of listeners tonight. Laric and Lisiel of Firon had lingered after the Rialla to await the birth of their second child, conceived last winter before a visit to Graypearl. Not sure of her pregnancy until early spring, they had hoped she would be able to travel after the Rialla. But thirty-eight was a risky age for childbearing. So they stayed at Dragon’s Rest while her brother, Yarin of Snowcoves, tended their princedom from his holding.
Edrel and Norian had also delayed departure, intending to escort Laric and Lisiel as far as Edrel’s home of River Ussh after the birth. It was thus almost exclusively a family party—Laric and Tilal were Pol’s kin, Edrel had beer his squire, and Norian was distantly related to Gemma. Meiglan, who had no family but her father and a few half-brothers she’d never met, was constantly amazed by the complex web of kinships that had Rohan, Sioned, and Pol at its center.
Kierst, Isel, Dorval, Syr, Firon, Ossetia—six of thirteen princedoms were tied by blood to Pol. His father was High Prince; his cousin, Lord of Goddess Keep. Other relations or close friends were important ath’rim. Between them, Rohan and Pol directly controlled or strongly influenced most of the continent. But Meiglan didn’t let herself think too often about the power she’d married. She’d learned to hide her nervousness and behave like other highborn ladies. Sionell was her idol and mentor for many things she was too shy to ask anyone else about. Kostas’ wife, Danladi, was another model for behavior—and much easier to emulate, being nearly as quiet and self-effacing as Meiglan herself. But Meiglan was never sure if she truly succeeded at impersonating a great lady or if people merely acted as if she did because of Pol.
Yet this summer something astonishing had happened. Sioned—who wore her two kinds of power, princely and Sunrunner, with authority that Meiglan never dared dream of attaining—had asked, “Meggie, what’s your opinion?”
At face value it was a request for information. But Sioned had never used her nickname before. Though that was startling enough, the real shock had been that Sioned—vibrant, brilliant, beautiful even at sixty—Sioned had paid her the ultimate compliment of asking her thoughts without first saying that her thoughts were valuable. Among these powerful people, compliments were in fact thinly veiled sarcasm; everyone expected everyone else to have wits and to use them. Praise for one’s person was eagerly sought and smugly received, but intelligence was expected, and compliments on it usually implied its lack.
Because of that one question, Meiglan had begun to believe that she might become the kind of princess Pol needed. Someone poised and self-assured and clever. Someone like Sionell.
Thinking of her friend, Meiglan plucked a song Sionell had taught her. They were friends—despite the awkward revelations that had occurred when Meiglan asked Pol if it would be proper to ask Sionell to stand with her at their marriage.
“She’s been so kind to me, and—I don’t have anybody but my father to be with me, and I so much want a friend there as well—but if it’s not suitable—”
He looked dismayed for a moment, then smiled and shrugged. “I’m sure she’d be glad to stand with you, Meggie.”
His expression was such that she had not asked. That evening she found out from her servant that Sionell had been in love with Pol since childhood.
“It’s been over a long time,” Thanys reported. “Since before she married Lord Tallain, they say. But don’t distinguish her, my lady. She could be a threat to you.”
Never. Absurd. Still, looking back over certain things which had been incomprehensible at the time, there had been an unspoken tension between Pol and Sionell, as if things had been said that could never be forgotten. Or forgiven.
Meiglan attributed it all to some mystery in the past that she had no right to ask about. She had no right to jealousy, either; Pol so obviously loved her. Everyone remarked on it, even loathsome Princess Chiana in that nasty-sweet way of hers: “My dear, I declare that if you took a fancy to a certain star in the night sky, he’d pull it down for you to wear around your pretty throat.” Pol and Sionell shared the affection of lifelong friends. The two families saw each other often at Dragon’s Rest and Stronghold. Letters were frequent. Sionell had Named her second son Meig. She was one of the few people Meiglan trusted.
On Pol’s love Meiglan’s life was built. She saw him smiling at her and decided to play a familiar song, hoping Edrel would nudge him into singing it.
The lyric was about the faradhi who had married a Prince of Kierst. It had been a great scandal at the time, for no highborn had ever wed a trained Sunrunner. Their marriage at a Rialla was ostensibly the song’s subject, but everyone knew it was really about Rohan and Sioned.
Pol laughed as she began, and, sure enough, Edrel coaxed him to sing. He rose and walked toward her, his clear, firm voice carrying the melody while her fingers danced over the fenath. Ostvel was strongly suspected of having written the words, but he always denied all responsibility.
Faradh’im whispered on the light, and merchants gossiped at the Fair,
And Princes frowned in warning dire at Kierst’s colossal dare:
A Sunrunner, with rings of gold and rings of silver shining,
Kierst’s Princess she would surely be, her powers his entwining.
It’s said it happened with a look, a touch of fated hands—
>
But I attest Sunrunner’s Fire, as hot as Desert sands.
The voices rose like Storm God’s wind—the High Prince—
Meiglan faltered as Pol stopped singing. He turned to the windows, his body tense and his eyes lit with excitement. Meiglan hid her trembling as best she could. She knew what that look meant.
“Hear me well, daughter. I don’t give a damn how much dragons frighten you. Don’t ever show it or say so aloud—not to him, not to your dearest friend, not to your most trusted servant, not even to yourself when you’re alone!”
Meiglan stood still, hoping no one would look at her, or that her frozen stance would be taken for surprise. The trumpeting of the dragons echoed and shuddered through the room, rattling crystal goblets like glass bones. Pol had explained their habits, their differing calls, their brilliant colors, their intelligence. She had stood at his side to watch and listen, ridden with him headlong down the valley to greet them while he laughed with the joy of being nearly airborne himself on a golden stallion. She said and did all the right things. No one ever guessed that she feared dragons to the depths of her soul.
Startled silence gave way to excited shouts; stillness became a riotous scramble toward the windows.
“You see?” Tilal laughed at Gemma. “We’ve been watching for them in vain for two days, but he knew they were here even before they called out!”
Jihan and Rislyn darted to the windows where their father lifted them up to see the dragons. Meiglan stayed where she was and tried to recover her senses.
“Look!” Rislyn cried. “Is that Azhdeen, Papa?”
She could never reveal her fear. Who could she tell? None of these people would understand, and certainly not Pol. His laughter rang out as if greeting old friends—which, to him, they were. Especially his own dragon, Azhdeen. Pol would be disappointed by her fear, hurt that she had lied to him for so long.
“Can we ride out to see them tonight, my lord?” This from Sioneva, her new fosterling—descended from the royalty of five princedoms—what could Meiglan possibly teach this girl about being a princess?
“We’ll go up to the lake tomorrow and watch them,” Pol replied.
“Why don’t you take your sketchbook along, darling?” Gemma said. “I know Dani would love to see a drawing of so many dragons.”
Gemma had grown up with Danladi, second-youngest of Roelstra’s daughters, and the two were as close as sisters. Meiglan thought of her own dearest friend, almost a sister, but she could never let Sionell know her fear either. Sionell loved dragons as much as Pol did. They shared so many things: a Desert childhood, the same friends and family, a love for dragons, a quickness of mind and toughness of spirit—and neither of them would ever comprehend her terror.
“I assume you’re going to have a little chat with Azhdeen?” Laric asked Pol, his amusement tinged with envy.
“If he’s in an expansive mood—and finds sheep to his taste! He’s like a cat, that one, picking over the best until one tempts his appetite.”
Thanys sidled up to Meiglan and took her elbow, guiding her unobtrusively away from the fenath. She gave the servant a grateful look for the prompting and the support. The others must never guess at the sick weakness in her limbs. Thanys always looked out for her, always protected her—a trusted servant who knew what the sound and sight of dragons did to her. But Thanys had been the one who had brought the sorcerer Mireva to Stronghold in Meiglan’s suite. How could she trust Thanys?
She gathered her courage and approached Pol. He turned from the twilight view of dragons in flight and smiled down at her. “I’m sorry, sweet. We’ve crowded you out. Here, come stand by the window. Aren’t they magnificent?”
She nodded, lying to him with the gesture. There were so many dragons that the soft blue of the day-fading sky was shadowed by wings like dark clouds descending. The people around her pressed close; she could barely breathe for the crush and the fear.
“. . . not even to yourself when you’re alone!” That was the real irony. She was never and always alone. She was both surrounded by people and encased in solitude. Like a winter-iced pine, she lived in a forest and was separated from it by a thin layer of crystal that allowed others to see but never to touch her. Except for Pol, except for his warmth like the heart of the sun itself, nothing and no one touched her. Not even her children. She lived in fear of shattering, of watching the icy glass splinter around her to leave her naked and trembling with cold.
• • •
Everyone rode to the lake the next day except Lisiel, big with child, and Meiglan, who kept her company. Pol left them in his wife’s chambers, placidly sewing baby clothes and listening to Catallen, who also had bardic pretensions, read his latest work. Personally, Pol had no use for poetry unless he could sing it, but it was incumbent upon a prince to have a bard in residence; that was why Miyon had known he could not refuse Catallen’s services.
It was a relief to see Meiglan pleasantly occupied while he went chasing dragons. She was a gallant darling to hide it, but he knew how they frightened her. Lisiel provided the perfect excuse for her to stay home. He need not worry about her and she need not wear her nerves raw pretending to be unafraid.
So he rode out with a clear conscience. The horse beneath him was nearly as eager as he. Azhenel—“dragon horse”—was the finest of the golden breed at Dragon’s Rest. The name had come from an incident four years ago, when the yearling escaped the paddock and galloped up the valley to the lake. Amazingly, the dragons’ meal had not included the colt. Perhaps it was because they had already dined on fat sheep, or perhaps it was as the awed Master of Horse said—that a mysterious affinity for dragons allowed the colt to gambol about among them with perfect unconcern. Pol arrived to find him actually playing with immature dragons five times his size, for all the world like children from neighboring farms come together for a holiday.
When dragons came each year on their migrations, Azhenel called out in welcome instead of fretting with the high, nervous whinny of more skittish stablemates. Horses could be trained not to fear dragons, but Azhenel was the only one in Pol’s experience—or anybody else’s—that genuinely liked them. Chay often ascribed human characteristics to horses, but even he was taken aback by Azhenel’s behavior.
“Damned animal’s making fun of us,” he growled the first time he saw the young stallion, well-grown and with a cascade of snowy white mane and tail, cavort with dragons. “Look at him! As if those talons weren’t half as long as his legs!” Then, eyeing Pol with amusement sparkling in his gray eyes: “Have you learned how to talk to horses, too? Whispered a word or two in his ear that as long as they’re well-fed, they won’t be interested in him?”
In his more whimsical moments Pol sometimes thought that Azhenel was the one who’d learned how to talk, and his conversations were with dragons. Certainly when they reached the lake and he dismounted to let the stallion greet his winged friends, Azhenel delighted in nudging dragons with his nose, whinnying, flicking his tail playfully in their faces, and gently nipping his favorites. The older dragons reacted with genial grunts. The hatchlings fluttered and called out in bewilderment at this strange, hooved, unwinged thing, nearly their own size, that invited them to play. But soon they were chasing Azhenel, screeching gleefully as they flew to catch up with him.
“That’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen,” Tilal breathed. “You’d think they’d rip him to shreds!”
Gemma stared with wide brown eyes. “And you say he’s been doing this all his life?”
Pol nodded. “I’ve known a few cats who thought they were people, but this is the only horse I ever heard of who thinks he’s a dragon!”
“Why is that, my lord?” Dannar asked. He was off his own horse and standing beside Rislyn’s pony, a gentling hand on the little mare’s neck as she danced nervously in the presence of dragons.
“Because Papa’s azhrei, just like Grandsir,” Jihan responded. “Kierun, you don’t have to hold my reins. Thank you very
much, but I can handle a horse.”
The squire turned crimson and started to back away.
“Stay put, Kierun,” Pol ordered. “Jihan, your new pony hasn’t seen dragons before and might bolt. A few broken bones would probably benefit your temper, but I don’t feel like explaining to your mother how you got them.”
Laric slid from his saddle and joined Pol. “Good Goddess, there’s enough of them to drink the lake dry. And the sheep must be half gone.”
“There’s not much to eat in the Desert,” Sioneva said. “They must have been hungry, poor darlings.”
Tilal glanced sidelong at his daughter, brows arching. “Azhwis,” was all he said, but those who understood bits of the old language began to laugh.
“My girls, too,” Pol grinned at him. “Daughters of dragons, all of them!”
“I swear to you, the first thing she said may have been ‘mama,’ but the second was ‘Take me to see dragons’!”
“Is that Azhdeen, Pol?” Laric asked all at once.
His heart skipped with excitement as the huge sire called out, paced in elegant state to the water’s edge, and with a single wingstroke leaped into the air. Horses neighed as the dragon sailed across the lake and landed with breathtaking precision a few lengths from Pol.
Azhdeen was gorgeous and knew it. His blue-gray hide was marked by the fewest battle scars of any sire there—sign of his supremacy—and rippled with the strength of massive muscles. He rose up on hind legs and spread his wings to show their silver undersides. It was his usual greeting to Pol, who went forward and lifted his own arms wide as if to embrace the dragon. His dragon.
Into the space between them swirled a riot of color. Pol expanded his own colors to meet and merge with those of the dragon. Instantly he was surrounded, absorbed, engulfed—ecstatic.
Emotions first—pleasure at seeing Pol; satisfaction at thirst assuaged and plump sheep devoured; smugness at the number and quality of females who’d chosen him for mating at Rivenrock; pride in his many new offspring. Curiosity about Pol’s own mate and hatchlings; amazement tinged with scornful superiority that the little females had grown no bigger and there were no new ones despite the fact that this was a mating year.