by Melanie Rawn
Finally Chay, who had let his horse lag behind Rohan’s to give the young man some privacy, caught up to him again. They rode ahead of the troops, out of earshot even in the profound stillness. Rohan glanced around at him. “Yes?” he prompted.
“You’ve never hunted a dragon before. It’s past mating now, and he’ll be even more vicious.”
“I promised Father.”
“Rohan, I wish you’d let me—”
“No. This dragon is mine.”
Chay glanced away. “As you wish, my prince,” he said stiffly.
“No! Chay, don’t—I never want that from you!”
The cry from the heart softened Chaynal. “I’ll have to call you that around the others, you know. But we’ll stay to each other as we’ve always been, if that’s what you want.”
Rohan nodded his gratitude. “I need that, Chay. I’m going to need your help.”
“You have it. You don’t need to ask.” Chay shrugged his shoulders against the heat. “I can almost hear the Merida getting ready. They’ll have seen the fires by evening and know Zehava’s dead. There’ll be trouble, Rohan.”
“I have a few ideas,” the young prince responded. “And not just for them.”
“Roelstra?” Chay guessed, and saw confirmation in the set of Rohan’s jaw. “You’d better be in one hell of a secure position before the Rialla.”
“I’ll be in what he’ll think is an untenable position. He’ll like that. He’ll think I’m ready to grab whatever support I can get, even from him. And support will come in the form of one of his doubtlessly charming daughters as my wife.”
“But Tobin said that Andrade—”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.”
“You’re going to disobey the Lady of Goddess Keep?” Chay whistled softly between his teeth.
“I’m scared to death, if you must know,” he confessed. “She loomed over Tobin and me like a she-dragon when we were little, and the feeling lingers a bit. But I’m going to live my own life, not her version of it. And that’s why I’m going to need your support, especially at the Rialla.”
“I’ll do whatever you want, of course. But do you know what you’re doing?”
“Yes,” Rohan said flatly. “I’m going to build a princedom that doesn’t depend on my sword. Father said the promises of a prince die with him. Not this prince, Chay! When I die, my sons will inherit peace, not just the absence of war for a few seasons or years while enemies think up new ways to attack.” He paused for Chay’s reaction, and when none was forthcoming remarked, “You’re not being very enthusiastic.”
“It’s a fine idea,” Chaynal said carefully. “But I don’t think it’s very practical.”
“I’ll make it work. You’ll see.”
Rivenrock rose up before them. The reddish striations in the stone might have been dried blood, dragon or human. Rohan drew rein, contemplating the mouth of the canyon with its great spire.
“He’s still here.” Rohan pointed to dark patches of plants. “See the bittersweet along the cliff? He’s been cropping it to keep up his strength, because he’s not done mating. Usually it grows back almost overnight, but this is eaten right down to the ground.”
“It doesn’t take a dragon six days to mate his females,” Chay protested.
“Father wounded him badly. Can’t you sense that he’s still back there in the canyon?”
Chay saw and heard nothing, and said so. Rohan only smiled. All at once a shriek echoed off the canyon walls, its force clattering loose stones down to the gully. “He’s here,” Rohan repeated, and rode forward. Half a measure into the canyon he dismounted and unsheathed his sword, gesturing for Chaynal to do the same. “Maeta,” he said to the commander, “Keep everyone else back. You’re here to help me drag this monster home, and that’s all. Chay, come with me.”
“Your grace,” Maeta began, her eyes narrowing with worry—black eyes like Zehava’s, whose kinswoman she may or may not have been depending on which family rumor one believed. Rohan gave her a long look and she subsided with an obedient nod.
Rohan and Chaynal climbed the narrow shelf that passed for a trail along the canyon wall. The acrid odor of dragon mating was in the air. Caves lined the cliffs, many of them walled up by females who had already laid their eggs within. Eight caves on the opposite side of the canyon were sealed, and Rohan wondered how many dragons curled within shells there, baking in ovenlike heat to maturity. Dragons, with broad and graceful wings for flight, long throats for calling to each other on the wind—and deadly talons that ripped flesh to shreds. Rohan had to think of the dragons as killers today, not as the soaring, beautiful creatures that had enchanted him from childhood.
He had been certain that the grandsire would still be here. Zehava had crippled the dragon and slowed him up in attending to his females. Two caves were still open on the opposite wall, and the shifting of pebbles within told him there were she-dragons inside, waiting impatiently for their lord. An unmated female, too heavy with eggs to fly, died quickly; crumbled skeletons of those who had attempted flight littered the gully below. Rohan had ridden out here often, collecting talons, teeth, and the odd wing- or thigh-bone for study. He knew how the skeletons fit together and how the muscles lay along them, and how the whole became an animal of rare beauty—at least to him. But now he was going to kill a dragon, finish the work his father had begun before he started work of his own.
He climbed faster. It was not recommended to scramble up a cliffside with a naked sword in one’s hand, but he didn’t dare sheathe it in case the dragon surprised him. Even the instant or two it would take to draw his sword might mean his life or Chay’s. Risky enough to send rocks clattering down the walls as they climbed, but he hoped the dragon would think it only the sound of the stone ovens settling into place for the summer.
At last they reached the cavern he’d spotted from below. After catching his breath, he told Chay to find a good place to hide.
“Rohan, will you forgive me if I tell you you’re out of your mind? This is all very good sport, but I’d feel much better if I knew what we were doing.”
“Take a look at this cave. It’s walled up, the eggs laid and the she-dragon gone. Now, if you were the sire and you’d been through hell to mate this year, and you saw two puny creatures about to attack the fruits of your labors—”
Chay snorted with laughter. “You are out of your mind. All right, what do you want me to do?”
“Nothing much, unless I’m killed. If I am—ran like hell. And tell Mother to forgive me.”
“If she knew about this, she’d kill you herself and save the dragon the trouble.” Chay shook his head, then went to the far end of the ledge where a sizable pile of rocks provided adequate cover.
Rohan wiped sweat from his forehead and turned to study the opposite wall where empty caves gaped tauntingly. From which would the dragon emerge? Or was he in a cave on this side? Instinct said not. Rohan refused to contemplate the insanity of this undertaking and slid behind an outcropping of rock to wait. The ledge was about a man-height wide and about twice that long—plenty of room for him to maneuver, but difficult for a dragon. Rohan hoped so, anyway.
The shadows were shortening toward noon when the dragon limped out of a cave opposite Rohan’s perch. Replete after a morning of wholehearted attention to one of his ladies, he yawned widely and stretched first one hind leg, then the other. Rohan heard Chay’s muffled laughter nearby. It really was rather funny to see this randy old grandsire of a beast grown sleepy with his sexual exertions. But Rohan lost all impulse toward mirth when he noted the many rents in the dragon’s hide that still oozed blood. As the great wings unfolded to prepare for flight, Rohan also saw how stiffly the dragon moved. There was a large splotch of congealed blood on the underside of one wing, and a smaller patch on a flank. Rohan gathered himself and stepped out into the sunlight, calling a derisive challenge to the dragon that had killed his father.
Because the sun was over Rohan’s shoulder
and his position was higher up this side of the canyon, the dragon had to squint to see him. In other circumstances that would have been funny, too, watching the great baleful eyes narrow as they sought out the call’s source. Rohan sent a prayer of thanks to the Goddess for arranging things thus; the dragon would have to beat his injured wings strongly to bring himself up to Rohan’s position. Between his wounds and his excesses of mating, the dragon was so exhausted that the effort would be immense.
Exhilaration flushed through him as the wings stroked once, twice, unsure of their strength. The dragon grunted in annoyance and pain, then lurched into the air. For an instant his ability to fly was in doubt. But with three powerful beats of his wings he was airborne—and heading straight for Rohan.
The prince gulped down terror, brought up his sword, and held his ground. The dragon loomed over him, sunlight glaring off his golden hide. Jaws parted, revealing broken teeth, and Rohan felt the heat of the dragon’s breath in his face. He had a sudden mental image of his own head being swallowed into that gaping throat. He had never been so close to a dragon before, and what he wanted most of all was to hide until the terrible beast flew away.
Instead he leaped to one side, slashing his sword down with all his strength. By the span of his own fingers he missed getting sliced in half by dragon jaws. The beast howled as he slammed into the ledge, one wing bent up against his body and blood welling where Rohan had chopped at it. As he tried to extend the wing again, bones cracked like blasts of lightning across the sky. Balance and flight gone, the dragon clawed at the cliffs edge with his hind legs, forelegs scrabbling the air in an attempt to gain purchase—preferably around Rohan.
Looking into those reddened, infuriated eyes, Rohan felt his own blood boil. This was the enemy. Something very old and fierce welled up in him and he hacked at the nearest foreleg, laughing as the dragon screamed. One wing stroked frantically, the other useless. Rohan plunged his blade into the long, writhing neck. Gore spurted out as he withdrew the sword and he stabbed it in again. The dragon’s head lashed back with an agonized bellow, then fell forward. Rohan hefted his sword a last time and sank it into the dragon’s eye.
There was a hot, ripping sensation down his arm as he lunged out of the way. The sword that had been so light only an instant before now seemed impossibly heavy as he tried to pull it from the eye socket, where it had caught against the jutting browbone. Rohan cried aloud with the effort and the sudden burning in his shoulder. The dragon’s head was flung toward the sky, the sword still protruding from the bloody hole that had been his eye. He clawed at the rocks, found no hold. His wing swept back and forth, instinct demanding flight, tail thrashing against the canyon wall. The dying dragon gave a last terrible shriek and slid down the cliff, his great frame crashing onto the ragged stones below.
Rohan glanced down at his arm, where a talon had scored flesh and muscle. He judged it a minor wound as he wiped it clean, not knowing which was his own blood and which was the dragon’s. He wondered with vague interest if the tales about dragon’s blood being poisonous were true.
All at once there was no warmth. The sun had no heat, the air turned to frigid water through which he moved with painful slowness. The searing breeze froze sweat on his body and congealed smears of blood into ice. He looked over the ledge at the dragon he had killed. Sick, swaying, he staggered back from the brink, fell to his knees, and vomited.
Canyon and sky were still spinning around him when he felt cool water dribbling onto his face. He shook his head irritably and groaned. “Bite down on this,” Chay’s voice instructed, and Rohan gagged on something bitterly salty that made him want to retch again. He swallowed convulsively and made himself sit up. “Give it a moment to work,” Chay said. The small wafer of herbs and salt reached his stomach like a goblet of strong wine before breakfast. His arm began to hurt in earnest, and he winced.
Chay sat back on his heels. “For a while there I thought I’d have to sail for the Far Islands and never come back. Tobin wouldn’t have let me live past telling her you were dead. But you killed him, Rohan—Goddess, how you killed him! It was beautiful! Everyone saw it, too. Your first dragon.”
“First and last. Never again, Chay. I don’t want to do that ever again.”
He accepted his friend’s help in getting to his feet. They started slowly down the rocky path, sliding uncertainly on loose rocks. Rohan’s knees worked, just barely. Maeta had their horses ready when they reached bottom, and Chay spent some moments calming the frantic Akkal, who had never been riderless at a dragon hunt before. Then he joined Rohan and the others beside the massive corpse.
It took all Rohan’s remaining strength to yank his sword from the dragon’s eye. He took off his tunic and used it to wipe the blade clean, instructing Maeta to take just the talons and teeth for now. “We’ll send someone out for the rest of him tomorrow.”
“Yes, my lord.” Maeta bowed low. She had taught him archery, horsemanship, played with him during his childhood, concealed his escapades from his parents. And now she bowed to him.
Rohan drained half a waterskin down his throat, wishing it was brandy. Chay helped him wash some of the blood from his face and chest, exclaiming in surprise at the long talon mark from right shoulder to to elbow. The wound was cleansed, bound with the remains of Rohan’s tunic, and the prince held himself from flinching at his brother-by-marriage’s rough, expert handling.
All at once there was a low rumble in the canyon: sinister, terrifying. He whirled around, one hand on his sword. The others stopped their work and froze, staring into the empty gorge. The sound thickened, intensified, a dozen different notes and all eerie enough to set the hair rising on Rohan’s nape.
“They’re mourning him,” Chay said, breaking the terrible thrall of dragon voices. “Hurry it up and let’s go home.”
The wailing rose and fell as they worked. The she-dragons grieved for their dead just as Rohan and his family would grieve tomorrow night when they set the torch to Zehava’s pyre. At last the talons and teeth were all in large velvet pouches, clattering soft percussion to the requiem music that followed Rohan and his people out into the Desert. He shivered in the blazing sunlight and silently repeated his vow. Never again.
Sioned drew and stood in her stirrups as she caught sight of the riders. Their goal was the same as hers: the cleft in the Vere Hills where Stronghold crouched between the cliffs. She glimpsed the sheen of afternoon sunlight off fair hair and felt all the color drain from her face.
“Him?” Ostvel murmured at her side.
She nodded, unable to speak.
“Oh, Goddess!” Camigwen exclaimed. “Be quick, Sioned—wash your face, and here’s my comb—hurry!”
“Leave her be, Cami,” Ostvel said. “What man can expect a woman to come through the Desert looking as if she’d just stepped from her own chambers?”
Sioned told himself the world was full of fair-haired men. She sat down in her saddle and tightened her grip on the reins, trying to calm her ragged breathing. The party’s sober gray mourning clothes told her that someone had died, someone important. But the prince wore no shirt or tunic at all. A swath of silk was wound around his right arm, and as the riders neared Sioned saw it was a hastily made bandage, soaked in blood.
“I hope we won’t have to wait long. It’s damned hot out here,” Ostvel remarked with casual understatement. “Arrange yourselves around Lady Sioned.”
The title made her start in surprise, but Ostvel had achieved the desired effect. The others formed a semicircle around her as if they were a guard of honor and she already a princess. Sunlight wavered across the sand as the riders approached, and Sioned wished futilely she had followed Cami’s advice. She glanced down at her brown riding clothes, thought of the untidy knot of the braid at her nape, regretted her lack of a wash. At least he would see the worst of her first, she thought, resigned. After this, she could only improve.
The riders paused atop a dune and the blond man rode ahead, a taller, darker figure
at his side. The face of her Fire-conjure appeared before Sioned in the flesh. As for the rest of him—of middle height but in elegant proportion that made him seem taller, with shoulders pulled straight despite his obvious exhaustion. They were good shoulders, strong and broad. His chest was smooth, lean muscles under golden skin shining with sweat and streaked with dried blood.
He reined in and nodded greeting. “Welcome, my lady.”
She inclined her head. “Thank you, my lord.” Her voice worked. Amazing.
“May I have the honor of presenting my sister’s husband? Lord Chaynal of Radzyn Keep.”
She looked into a pair of compelling gray eyes set deep into a tanned face. “My lord,” she acknowledged with a slightly less formal nod. He was, she supposed, quite devastatingly handsome. His intense interest in her was just this side of embarrassing, and a corner of his mouth curved in a small, wry smile.
“I am indeed honored, my lady,” he said, and bent his head to her.
Sioned remembered civility and gestured to the friends flanking her on either side. “My lord, may I make my companions known to you? Ostvel, Second Steward of Goddess Keep, and the Sunrunner Camigwen. These others are my friends as well.”
“You are all most welcome to my lands,” the prince said, and Sioned’s body went nerveless. His lands, not his father’s. They were in mourning gray for the old prince, and that meant that she would be marrying not an heir but a ruler in his own right. He was still speaking, and she attended desperately to his words. “It’s fortunate that my business concluded in time for me escort you to Stronghold. Lady Andrade will be pleased to see you safely arrived.”
“I look forward to talking with her,” Sioned heard herself say.
Lord Chaynal’s eyes said, I’ll just bet you do, and the corner of his mouth lifted a little higher. But the prince’s face was perfectly calm as he said, “My lady, will you do me the favor of a few moments’ private conversation?”