Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince

by Melanie Rawn

  “Yes, Lord Eltanin. Forgive me, I’d forgotten we were to talk. Shall we go to my tent and be comfortable?”

  The firelight reached for him, unable to give up the touching of his body and hair. Sioned went into her tent, huddled on the bed, and did not sleep.

  At dawn she rose and dressed in her riding clothes, careful not to awaken the other faradh’im. But as she was pulling on her boots, the encampment roused with noises a warrior would have associated with imminent attack. Swords clanged, boots and hooves pounded in the dirt, guards shouted orders. Sioned leaped up and pulled the tent flap aside, astonished by the frantic activity.

  “What in the name of—?” Camigwen, long hair streaming down her back, pressed to Sioned’s side. “Why are they all running around, shouting at each other?”

  The other Sunrunners, startled from sleep, crowded around and speculated among themselves, but no one had any answers until Ostvel strode past the tent and called out, “Get dressed, all of you! Hurry!”

  “Is something wrong?” Cami asked, bewildered.

  “That’s one way of looking at it,” he tossed back, leaving them more confused than before.

  Cami pulled on her clothes and followed Sioned outside. They spotted Ostvel in the crowd that flowed down to the river. As they reached him, they heard him give a sharp order for the guards to form ranks.

  “Fasten your tunic, woman! Straight lines, now! Look alive, even if you’re not awake!” When they were arranged to his satisfaction, he turned, caught sight of the faradh’im, and gave an ironic salute. “Good morning, ladies. You’re just in time to line the riverbank with the rest of us poor mortals. The High Prince has arrived.”

  “All this, for him?” Cami marveled, gesturing to the bustle around them that was repeated in every other prince’s camp.

  “All this and more. But the Desert is not going to present him with the very picture of a rabble in arms,” he added sternly to the troops. He snapped out an order and they marched down the slope to the river. Sioned and Camigwen followed in their wake, grateful for the path they carved out of the crowd.

  Upriver, Sioned could see violet sails limp in the motionless morning sunlight. Roelstra had not been scheduled to arrive until later, and Sioned suspected he had come early on purpose. Keeping people off balance seemed to be a favorite ploy of princes, to judge the breed by her own. The barge rounded a slight bend in the Faolain and drifted majestically toward the dock. Immense, painted white and gold and violet, it could easily hold over a hundred people in luxurious comfort.

  “Will you look at that!” Camigwen whispered.

  A man standing nearly snorted. “Aye, and look at the wary watcher on the prow! Some use dragons, some use monsters horrible as the sea creatures they’re put up to scare—but Himself’s ship changes guardian ladies the way Himself changes mistresses. It’s said the latest is with him, big belly and all.”

  Though Sioned’s interest was not in Roelstra’s mistress but his daughters, she inspected the magnificent carving. She gave the craftsman full credit for incredible skill and, if the image was accurate, the High Prince’s mistress full credit for surpassing beauty. As the barge floated past, figures and then faces were visible on the upper deck. Most of them were women, and the face matching the wary watcher belonged to a lady who was indeed heavily pregnant. The other women were slim and elegant, high-piled hair glittering with jewels, white dresses accented with violet trim. Four were dark, one was blonde, and the sixth had hair the color of tarnishing copper. All of them were beautiful.

  Roelstra himself was even more impressive than his ship. Tall, clad in a white cloak and a violet tunic, he stood at the rails of the upper deck with one hand lifted to greet the crowd. But Sioned, watching closely, saw that his gaze lingered on no one; he seemed to be looking for someone, and Sioned knew who it must be.

  “And there’s Himself,” the man beside her said, “all dressed up to dine off my own lord and all the rest. His whore looks ready to whelp—may it be yet another girl! The princesses are a fine lot—lovely as Lord Chaynal’s purest bred fillies, and kicking down their stalls to get at the best stallion, the young Prince Rohan—beggin’ your pardon, ladies, but what I think, I say out plain. Seventeen daughters, would you believe it? You’d think that with as many women as Himself has bedded, there’d be at least one boy in the litter. But no, the Goddess gives as she sees fit, and there’s justice in her giving. My own lord, now, I’m glad he’s happily wed. I wouldn’t want one of the royal bitches as my lady, and that’s the honest truth—beggin’ your pardon again for my unseemly talk, and in the presence of gentle-bred faradhi ladies like yourselves, as well! Come along with me if you want a good view of the show. I’ll escort you close and you’ll see my lord and all the others come down to greet Himself.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Camigwen told him with her dazzling smile. “Our own escort seems to have abandoned us. Lead on, sir!”

  “Care of a Sunrunner brings Goddess blessing,” he replied with a wink and a gap-toothed grin. “But the truth is I like being seen in company with pretty women!”

  He made a path for them by shoving others roughly out the way, and to any protests growled only, “Faradh’im!” Sioned bit back a smile as she realized that while giving them protection and a good vantage point, he was also using them as the perfect means of getting close to the action himself. They neared the dock and she searched the throng of highborns for Rohan. The short pier was crammed with nobility—even Lady Andrade was there, along with Tobin and Chay. But of Rohan’s blond head she saw nothing.

  High Prince Roelstra and his mistress had descended from the upper deck, his daughters trailing along behind. The barge slid smoothly into dock and trumpeters blew out a fanfare, answered by a stately drumbeat from eight young men wearing the Waes city lord’s garish red and yellow. Sioned’s escort pushed through to the very front of the crowd onshore, and she scanned the assembly once again. There was still no sign of Rohan. Surely it was unwise to be late for the High Prince’s arrival—and even worse to miss it altogether. She began to be afraid, for there was no conceivable reason for him to insult Roelstra in this fashion.

  With the first step Roelstra took onto the wooden planks, every highborn sank to one knee—everyone except Lady Andrade, who only bent her head. He gestured graciously for them to rise. Some of them wore respectful faces, others looked guardedly resentful of the act of homage. Lord Chaynal’s bright gray eyes were without emotion, but Princess Tobin looked carved of ice in her gown of white and red, her husband’s colors. Roelstra distributed smiles all around, then turned to Andrade.

  She smiled with poisonous sweetness visible even at a distance when Roelstra presented his mistress to her. Sioned shared a grin with Cami. “I’d give a lot to listen in,” she whispered, and their escort chuckled.

  A commotion at the steps to the pier turned all heads. “ ’Way! Make way!” a man bellowed. “Move aside for His Royal Highness Prince Rohan!”

  Sioned clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle giggles—not that anyone would have heard her in the sudden buzz of speculation and outrage that followed close on this arrogant proclamation of Rohan’s presence. He strode up the steps two at a time, tugging at the cuffs of his shirt and running a hand through his hair as if he had dressed in such hurry that he hadn’t had time to comb it. A masterpiece of effect, Sioned noted gleefully. He had arrived late on purpose so he would not have to bend his knee to the High Prince.

  Andrade had come to the same conclusion, though she was more successful in hiding her amusement. She slanted a look at Tobin, who was red-cheeked and tight-lipped, black eyes snapping with mirth. Chaynal prudently hid his grin with a fit of coughing that made it necessary for his hand to cover his lower half of his face. His quicksilver eyes danced merrily as Rohan gave Roelstra a short bow that was perfunctory courtesy between princes.

  In a breathless voice the young man said, “Pardon, cousin! Today of all days I overslept! I didn’t hear a si
ngle murmur of all the fuss, can you credit it? Why didn’t you warn me, Aunt?” he asked plaintively of Andrade, his eyes little-boy wide. “High Prince Roelstra must think me the worst kind of scattershell!”

  “Not at all, cousin,” Roelstra responded smoothly. “I understand that the demands of fatigue on healthy youth are answered only by enough sleep.”

  Rohan bestowed on him his most endearing smile. “My father always said you were a generous to a fault—and I’m glad you’re generous with my fault!” His gaze went to the woman behind Roelstra and his eyes rounded to their largest. Andrade nearly choked. The effort not to laugh brought tears to her eyes.

  “Are you all right, Aunt?” Rohan asked solicitously, without a hint of wicked enjoyment in his eyes. When she nodded helplessly, he turned again to Roelstra. “I know it’s not polite to stare, but—” He shrugged, sighed, and stared anyway.

  “It is I who have not been polite. I have failed to introduce you to my daughters. Come forward,” Roelstra snapped at them over his shoulder.

  They were presented: Naydra, Lenala, Pandsala, and Ianthe as princesses, Gevina and Rusalka by the title of Lady. Rohan bent over six slender hands and pressed his lips to the insides of six braceleted wrists. Naydra openly looked her appreciation of Rohan’s golden looks; Lenala simpered; Pandsala turned crimson. Ianthe looked Rohan straight in the eye, holding his gaze for a long bold moment before glancing away. Gevina giggled and protested that he tickled her skin, and Rusalka snatched her fingers away as quickly as she could.

  “My daughters,” Roelstra said casually when Rohan had finished saluting them. “The ones old enough to make the journey with me this year.”

  “And with even more at home!” Rohan exclaimed admiringly. “What luck for you, cousin, to live in so fair a garden! My father always said that his daughter was his greatest treasure—and you have seventeen of them! Oh—do you know my sister, Princess Tobin? And her lord, Chaynal of Radzyn Keep?”

  They were introduced. Andrade promised herself a good long laugh when she had time and privacy to enjoy it.

  “But you must be weary,” Rohan went on to the High Prince with the sweet solicitude of a young man for one nearing his dotage. “I shouldn’t keep you standing here in the hot sun. I look forward to talking with you very soon, cousin—and, may I hope, your charming daughters?”

  The High Prince and his entourage returned to their barge until their tents could be raised and furnished. The other princes and highborns left for their own camps, the welcoming farce over, all points going to Rohan in a game few were yet aware was being played. As Andrade descended the steps of the pier, she caught sight of a pale, intense face crowned by untidy red-gold hair, and lost all amusement at Rohan’s performance. Sioned had eyes only for him, and in those eyes was her heart.

  Chapter Eleven

  A violet sky loomed close and dark, dripped a stinging crystal rain that needled into his flesh. He moaned, covering his face with hands frozen into brittle carved ice, and sucked a deep breath of water-thick air. It hurt going into his lungs, hurt even more when it choked out of him in a sob. So it had finally happened, one part of his mind observed; he had taken too much dranath and was dead. There was a certain peace in the idea, although death was even more painful than life. Perhaps that served him right.

  He peered through his parted fingers at the sky to see that it formed distinct segments, rising on either side of him, angling up to a point over his head. Not sky at all, only one of Roelstra’s violet tents. No freezing needles of rain, either, merely the lack of dranath turning his nerves to pinpoints of agony.

  Crigo sat up, throbbing head gripped between his hands. Near his bed was a table with a silver wine pitcher. He gulped half the drugged wine directly from the chill container, then fell back with a long shudder of anticipated relief.

  He had no memory of a journey, but there was only one place he could be: Waes. The tent around him, the voices outside, the scents of crushed grass and the river all confirmed the location. But he ought to have remembered sailing down the Faolain from Castle Crag—unless the drug-hunger meant he had been deliberately deprived of dranath so that the trip over water would incapacitate him. Either that, or he had indeed come close to killing himself on that night he had woven a moonlit path to Stronghold.

  The last thing he truly remembered was that night, and he wished he did not. Especially did he recall the colors of the faradhi’s mind, lucent and distinctly feminine—fire-gold to burn him, river-blue to drown him, summer-green to seduce his arid mind into the richness of her, and the black anger of fierce protectiveness, implacable condemnation. Forcing himself to reconstruct the scene, he saw again through the wine steward’s eyes the assembly of vassals at Stronghold. He had done it before, using the man’s eyes and ears to observe for Roelstra. But she had caught him at it. He gasped as he looked on her face in memory—proud features too strong for conventional beauty, raging green eyes, red-gold hair. But more than the sight of her, the memory of her mind’s grasp terrified him. How skillfully she had woven the moonlight into a trap, until he had cried out to Lady Andrade and lost control.

  He paused to calm his racing heartbeats, sank deeper into the drug. He knew the girl’s colors now; she might be able to identify his. But who was she? The wine steward had been about his kitchen duties earlier, so Crigo had not seen why she had been placed at the high table. Other faradh’im had been seated elsewhere in the Great Hall. Why had she been singled out?

  “Awake at last, I see.”

  The sound of Roelstra’s voice spasmed Crigo to a sitting position. The High Prince stood in the center of the carpet, magnificent in a violet silk tunic, dominating and angry. Crigo stammered out, “My l-lord—”

  “You were unconscious for two days, and even when you woke you made no sense before falling back into your stupor. Tell me what happened that night.”

  “I don’t know.” He drew bony knees to his chin and wrapped his arm around his legs. “I watched as you bid me. There was a girl—”

  “What girl? What did she look like?”

  “Green eyes, red hair. A faradhi.” He frowned, bringing the picture into focus again. “Seven rings—no, six, and an emerald not given by Andrade. We—they—don’t use jewels much. She was powerful, my lord, she caught me—”

  “Her name?”

  Crigo shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “You’ve not been gone from Goddess Keep for that many years. She must have been in training before you left. Think, damn you! Tell me her name!”

  Unbidden, there came to mind the image of a red-haired girl, one of the scores of girls at Goddess Keep and beneath the notice of an arrogant young Sunrunner like himself. Yet he remembered her. “Sioned,” he whispered.

  “Sioned,” Roelstra repeated. “A faradhi named Sioned. . . . If I can detach her from Andrade—”

  “The Lady is here?” Crigo gasped.

  “That doesn’t concern you.” The High Prince approached and glanced down into the half-empty pitcher. “Drink up, Crigo,” he said with a cold smile. “After all this time, you need it.”

  The Sunrunner obeyed as Roelstra strode from the tent. Andrade was here. Terror griped him, suddenly and paradoxically replaced by joy. He could ruin the High Prince by revealing that the faradhi she had thought dead these many years was still alive. The power of it made him laugh softly and he clutched the knowledge to him like a long-sought lover. But in the next instant he trembled, empty once again of all but the drug. Roelstra would never have brought him here if he feared betrayal. Crigo had no power at all over anyone, much less the High Prince. The game, as always, belonged only to Roelstra.

  Tobin kissed her husband good morning to such effect that he tried to pull her back down into their bed with him. When she resisted, laughing, Chay opened his eyes, then opened them wider. She was fully dressed, her hair in a cool twist atop her head, and at her belt was a fat leather purse. Chay groaned.

  “Oh, Goddess! You’re off t
o make me a pauper again!”

  “And I’ll have a splendid time doing it, too,” she teased. “Come on, move your lazy bones. It’s well past sunup. And you know that anything I spend at the Fair, you’ll only win back when you and Akkal come in first at the races.”

  “You spend so much to give me an incentive to win,” he glowered.

  “How well you know me! Anyway, it’s not all ours. Mother sent some for me to spend on Rohan, and he gave me quite a bit—to spend as I like, or so he said, but what he really meant is that I’m to buy things for Sioned.”

  “She’s going with you?”

  “Of course.” Tobin kissed him again. “It seems I’m getting predictable. You’re going to get bored with me.”

  She threw his clothes at him on her way out of the tent. Outside in the warm sunlight, she stretched widely, sneezed away the tickle of unaccustomed scents, and walked over to the Sunrunners’ tent where Sioned and Camigwen were waiting for her. With them was a young faradhi introduced as Meath.

  “If it pleases your highness, I’ll escort you today,” he said giving her a bow as elegant as her husband’s.

  “That’s very kind of you,” Tobin replied sweetly. “You can carry the packages.”

  Meath sighed. “That’s exactly what Cami has in mind, your grace.”

  “I’d like it very much if you’d all call me by my name, and forget this nonsense of titles,” Tobin said as they started off.

  “Thank you,” Camigwen said shyly. “I’m Cami to my friends, and if Sioned doesn’t promise to buy something pretty for herself, I’ll tell you what her nickname was as a child!”

  “You wouldn’t!” Sioned protested, her eyes dancing. “Besides, remember all the things I know about you! And stop worrying, Cami—I’m going to spend every copper I have. I’ve never been to a Rialla Fair. Will it have everything we’re told it will, y—Tobin?” she corrected herself with a smile.