by Melanie Rawn
• • •
Miyon hated Dragon’s Rest as much as he hated Stronghold, and for the same reason: neither belonged to him. His passion to possess the latter was perhaps a whit the more powerful for being of longer duration, but every time he saw the graceful sweep of Pol’s palace his guts ground with fury. His iron had helped build Dragon’s Rest, iron that Sunrunner witch Sioned had cheated him out of in 719.
But as deeply as he loathed and lusted after both places, Pol’s residence had a distinct advantage over Rohan’s: there were more secluded places in which to hold a private conversation.
He waited in one such location for Catallen to arrive. The tutor probably had not expected to be summoned so soon, but Miyon needed information before he could select his course of action. The tale he’d told Meiglan last night—fleeing for his life after the Merida had seized command of his army to effect the attack against Tuath—had explained his immediate presence, but there were many things he must know. Catallen had better provide some answers.
The tutor slunk by, glancing nervously around him. Miyon cursed quietly—the man could not have looked more the conspirator if he’d worn a craft sign—and Catallen jumped. After another swift look down the hallway, he slipped into the alcove and sketched a hasty bow.
“Pardon my lateness, your grace—Princess Jihan was slow to learn the day’s lesson.”
“My granddaughter’s education concerns me not at all. Sitting in this closet waiting for you does.”
“I’m sorry, your grace. I—”
“Enough. I want to know everything you know, Catallen. Every detail about Dragon’s Rest, the Desert, Waes—everything.”
“I don’t have access to—”
“I didn’t send you here to teach history to Pol’s children or new songs to Pol’s wife! I want information about Pol himself, and I want it now.”
Catallen talked for some time, and Miyon did not interrupt him. He learned that Andry had used some bizarre spell at Goddess Keep, and that a considerable village of refugees had sprung up there; that strange things were happening in Firon; that Ludhil was conducting a pathetic little war of his own on Dorval; that Kostas and Arlis had been more successful in their endeavors but that the former was currently frustrated by Catha Heights and the latter by bad weather; that Tilal and Ostvel were cooling their heels in Waes, waiting for Rohan to decide if Swalekeep merited an attack; and that Chiana was universally suspect but that no one had any proof against her.
Miyon also learned that his son Birioc now occupied Tuath Castle and had proclaimed himself its lord. He wondered sardonically what nicety of feeling had prevented the young fool from naming himself Prince of Cunaxa; perhaps one of his Merida uncles had explained Miyon’s plans to him and he had stopped preening himself long enough to understand.
Best of all, he learned that Rohan and Pol were pent up in Stronghold, possibly preparing for a battle. But, knowing Rohan, probably not.
Catallen finished and Miyon sent him on his way. Leaving the alcove some time later, he meandered around the lower gardens in the intermittent sunshine and considered his next moves.
First things first. The Prince and Princess of Firon were in his very hands. The banner of Snowcoves flying over Balarat could mean only one thing: Yarin had decided the time was right for seizing the princedom he thought should have come to him in 719 anyway, rather than to a distant descendant of a long-dead Fironese prince. The athri’s discontent had been carefully noted by Miyon some years ago for future use; the time to use the knowledge had come.
But how? He could warn Laric of his brother-by-marriage’s treachery, and thereby gain invaluable credit for himself. It had the additional advantage of removing Laric from Dragon’s Rest to go save his princedom—taking along with him a sizable contingent of Pol’s troops. Pity he couldn’t rid himself of Lisiel and her new son at the same time; the brat’s squalling had kept him awake all last night.
He could stay quiet about Yarin’s ambitions—except in a report to Chiana, who would pass it along to the Vellant’im. He had no need of proving his value to them, however; something else he had in mind would make him their valued ally. Besides, what did the Vellant’im care about the wastes of Firon?
Laric, he decided with a smile, would be going home. If a messenger was sent to Cunaxa now, in twenty-five days or so Yarin could be warned at Balarat to expect his sister’s husband. It would take Laric twice that long to get there. With luck, he might even die of cold or avalanche along the way.
Next on Miyon’s list was Stronghold. He didn’t want it destroyed. He wanted it for himself. But that blue-eyed dragon who held it would continue to do so unless a force vastly outnumbering his own attacked. He’d given up Radzyn and Remagev; Miyon guessed that faced with similar odds, he’d relinquish Stronghold, too. So the objective was to keep Tallain occupied—which Birioc seemed to be doing—and prevent anyone, mainly Kostas, from coming to Rohan’s aid. A little more luck, and not only would Rohan be dead at last, but Meiglan would be a widow. And who would protect her and her young daughters? He grinned again, tore a thin branch off a willow tree that got in his way, and wondered what price to ask for his little treasures from Chiana and Rinhoel.
But before that could happen, Kostas must be stopped. He tagged it mentally for his message to Chiana, and then turned his mind to the more interesting and immediate question: the price he could get for Dragon’s Rest itself. The palace was only two days from Stronghold—through a narrow, twisting pass unsuited to the movement of soldiers, true, but Dragon Gap would be the last place from which Rohan would expect the Vellanti army to appear. It would be tricky—handing it over to them without seeming to, preserving his role as innocent victim of circumstances as long as possible—but he felt sure he could do it. With Laric gone and, say, sixty or so of Pol’s guard with him as escort, it would be easier to take the valley. Its natural defense of high-walled canyon mouth was formidable, but there had to be a way.
Edrel would have to be dealt with. Miyon turned the problem over in his mind for some time, unaware that he’d left the gardens behind and trudged through open fields until the damp soaked through the thin leather of his boots. But by then he cared nothing for the cold and wet. He had figured out a way to present the Vellant’im with Dragon’s Rest on a golden plate.
Seeing that he was nearly at the little cottage Pol had built for Meiglan, he decided to rest and warm himself there. He expected to find comfort, tinder for a fire, and perhaps something to eat or drink.
He did not expect to find saddlebags enough for fifteen horses packed for a journey.
By the time he’d inspected three sets he knew what was going on. Children’s clothes, food for a journey, even a map of the route to Stronghold—Miyon reclined in a large cowhide armchair and wondered how in the name of the Storm God he had sired so mortally stupid a daughter.
So she sought escape, did she? Or, knowing her, she sought Pol’s pretty face and big strong arms. Well, she would not find him. She must have started planning this almost the moment he’d arrived last night. It pleased him to think that he could still frighten her so much; she would be easier to control. This desperate bid for freedom and Pol was the best thing he’d learned all day.
He rested a little while, absorbing his surroundings with increasing amazement. Why a prince with so splendid a palace would want to construct something this vulgar—and with his own hands, too—was beyond him. There were two bedchambers and this main room where Meiglan undoubtedly relived her peasant childhood by cooking at the huge hearth. Ludicrous, that a prince wanted to live like the common ruck. But then, Pol’s head was stuffed full of strange notions; it was just as well he wouldn’t live to inflict them on everyone else as High Prince.
After a time Miyon rose, stretched, and found flint and kindling. He hated having to sacrifice his favorite cloak, but this had to look genuine for Laric’s and Edrel’s sakes. Meiglan was too thick to guess at once, but Miyon would enlighten her as to exactly what
had happened—and why.
He lit a fire in the hearth and made sure it was drawing well—he had to admit that Pol had done a good job setting the chimney. Then he yanked the patterned quilts from the beds and twirled them into long ropes that snaked along the wooden floor from the hearth toward the smaller rooms. A storage chest yielded a jar of cooking grease, congealed in the chill but adequate to his purposes. Smearing it on his cloak, he laid one end to the big quilt and the other in the hearth. Flames guided toward the greasy material caught and burned. Art, he told himself, grinning. Pure art.
Miyon stayed within as long as he could in the gathering smoke. When all the coverlets and the floor beneath them were burning, he stumbled, coughing, out the door.
It was cold outside without his cloak, but knowledge of a task charmingly accomplished warmed him. And as he waved his arms and shouted for help, the blood flowed even more sweetly through his veins.
The first man up the little hill was the winemaster, who had been on his way back from an inspection of his vineyards. Miyon collapsed against the man’s chest, keeping a good grip on him so he could neither run for help nor attempt to put out the fire within. By the time others reached the cottage, it was too late. They managed to stop the total destruction Miyon had hoped for, but the place was left only a hollow shell of wooden beams and chimney. Nearly everything inside was cinders.
“I was chilled by my walk,” Miyon explained later from his bed to Meiglan, Edrel, and Norian as Master Evarin mixed a poultice for his smoke-reddened eyes. “The fire I built in the hearth was a little too warm. I dropped off to sleep—and woke up coughing myself half to death. I was sitting too close and my cloak caught.” He swallowed wine to ease an admittedly sore throat, and glanced up at Meiglan. “I’m sorry, my treasure, but though they saved the frame and chimney, everything within the cottage is gone.”
Her stricken expression was seen as shock at the loss of Pol’s gift to her; Norian patted her hand in sympathy. Miyon was surprised to find his daughter was smarter than he’d thought, to understand without his explaining it to her in words of one syllable.
Still, just in case, he added, “I know you value what you kept there. But don’t let the loss worry you, Meiglan dearest.”
“You must lie back now, your grace,” the Sunrunner physician said, “and put this on your eyes. I’ll mix a draught that will soothe your lungs as well.”
“I thank you for your skill, Master Evarin,” he said, and coughed. “It won’t make me sleep, will it?”
“No, your grace. Not even drowsy.”
“Good. I must speak with Prince Laric at once. On my walk—I have a habit of taking long walks alone, they allow me to think in peace—I recalled something he needs to know.”
The only walks Miyon was in the habit of taking were from one mistress’ bed to another, and Meiglan knew it. She stared at him with velvet brown eyes that had always reminded him of a frightened cow’s. Then long lashes lowered and she bit her lip. Miyon pretended a coughing fit to hide laughter, then said, “Lord Edrel, would you be so good as to find Prince Laric for me? This really can’t wait.”
• • •
Mirsath, his cousin Karanaya, and the Sunrunner Johlarian met in Faolain Lowland’s oratory. A simple room off the main hall, it glittered with the treasures of five generations: crystal wedding goblets, silver plate and a delicate container for salt, gold candlesticks, and—the High Prince’s gift on completion of the new keep—a gilt rack to hold vigil candles. Ordinarily these were lit only for a remembrance ritual for royal dead; Mirsath had ordered candles kept burning here until Lowland was free.
No sunshine spilled through the colored glass skylights. The long row of tiny flames at the back of the room provided the only illumination beneath gray-black skies. Mirsath watched Karanaya walk back and forth in front of them, each pass bending the white-gold fires.
“We can forget any help from Kostas,” she was saying—another needless repetition of the obvious. In the days since Lord Maarken had summarized the war for Johlarian, they had hoped, beseeched the Goddess, and cursed the Syrene prince for adhering to war’s logic rather than Lowland’s desperate need.
“We have only ourselves,” Karanaya went on, still prowling, fingering the heavy golden chain around her neck. “Rohan can’t help. Kostas won’t.”
“Can’t,” Mirsath corrected wearily. “We’re only two hundred. There are thousands in Syr—”
“We’re the gateway to the Desert!”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, they’re already in the Desert,” Karanaya snapped.
“But what is it that keeps them here, instead of going around us?” Johlarian asked. “They want Lowland, but what for?”
“Could it be because we’re part of the Desert?” Mirsath asked. “They’ve destroyed every other place they’ve taken—but not Radzyn or Whitecliff or Remagev. Is it something about castles belonging to Rohan that—”
“There’s no sense in that,” said his cousin. “They destroyed Riverport and almost leveled Tuath, and they’re part of the Desert.”
“As much sense as risking your life to grab those pearls that night!” he snarled, out of patience with her.
She clasped both hands over her bodice, where between her breasts rested a tiny silk pouch holding the six iridescent black drops. “The Dragon’s Tears were my wedding present,” she began furiously, “the only thing I saved from the wreckage, and the only dowry I—”
“Assuming you live long enough to find another husband!”
“My lord, my lady!” Johlarian pleaded.
Mirsath ignored him. “Goddess, if only we could fight them!” He sank into a spindly fruitwood chair and crossed long legs at the ankles. “All we can do is wait for help. And block their efforts if we can. They’ve built a dozen bridging ladders, and lost every one of them to Sunrunner’s Fire. They’ve tried diverting the moat—sheer folly at this time of year, with the northern rains swelling the river. They’ve even poisoned the water, not knowing that we have our own well inside the walls.”
“All they have to do is starve us out,” Karanaya reminded him.
“But that wouldn’t take the hundreds who’re camped outside. Fifty or sixty, maybe, to wait for our surrender. Why don’t they use their strength and take us? They could. But they don’t. Why do they want Lowland?”
The same question was exercising the mind of Princess Tobin at Stronghold. The hardships of travel across the Long Sand had weakened her more than she would admit, but days of rest and recovery in her birthplace had gradually put some strength back into her limbs. Chay no longer shouted at her when she walked downstairs using her canes, although he did scowl horribly when she appeared one morning with just one to support her. Speech was still difficult, and succeeding days of overcast skies nearly drove her mad. But, trapped within her mind for the most part, she had plenty of time to think. And one of the things that puzzled her most was Faolain Lowland.
Tobin had always been a creature of movement. It frustrated her that her body would not respond with its former strength and suppleness to the energy of her mind. As tentative control returned, she took to walking up and down the center of the Great Hall morning and afternoon. Servants dodged nimbly around her, cleaning up after one meal or setting up for the next. Tobin would have gone outside to be out of their way, but courtyard cobbles and gravel garden pathways were difficult for her to negotiate. So across the smooth blue and green tiles of the Great Hall she limped on one good leg, one dragging foot, and her cane.
There must be something they weren’t seeing, some connection that had escaped them. Unlike Gilad Seahold and Faolain Riverport and dozens of smaller holdings, Desert castles still stood, for reasons unknown. More to the point, Lowland still stood—and had received an offer of peaceable surrender, which Radzyn and Remagev had not. What was the value placed on these keeps that kept them intact?
Radzyn was easily explained: a secure base with the only safe harbor on the Desert coast. Re
magev was more difficult. It had no strategic significance. Lowland did, but the Vellant’im could have gone around it. They didn’t need it militarily. So why—?
She turned at the huge double doors and started back up the central aisle to the high table. Behind it was the immense tapestry, a stylized gold dragon on blue, an emerald set into the ring the crowned beast held. Two chairs—not quite thrones—were directly below it, carved with dragons. It was a powerful setting Rohan had created for himself, lacking only him and Sioned to complete it. No, she corrected, not for himself, but for others. She remembered the night he had been officially acclaimed High Prince, how Sioned had conjured a dragon of Fire to leap through the air and meld into that tapestry. A brilliant piece of dramatic management, flamboyant and effective. Rohan’d shown the same impulse the night of the escape from Remagev, pretending that Pol’s dragon had come at his call, playing it for all he was worth. No one could fault her little brother for lack of imagination . . . .
But war was a grimly practical business. War depended on facts. Numbers of troops, directions of march, timing of maneuvers—war was as brutal and direct as the sword that hung near the tapestry, the sword Rohan had not touched for the length of Pol’s life.
And yet—Tobin’s thoughts whirled and she leaned on her cane, staring at the golden dragon’s outspread wings. The Vellant’im had fallen on their faces at sight of a dragon.
Tobin sacrificed pride to haste and snagged a passing servant to help her upstairs. She stammered badly with impatience while telling him she was quite well, merely fatigued, and wished neither husband nor physician to attend her. Alone in her chamber, she settled into a deep armchair and closed her eyes. Her own copy of the book had been offered up to necessity, but she had a very good memory and Sioned had taught her a few Sunrunner tricks for enhancing it. Thoroughly, methodically, she began to review everything Betheyn had read her from Feylin’s dragon book.