Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince

by Melanie Rawn

  “What shall set the precedent?” Roelstra had injected into the discussion, and the battle had begun.

  Everyone had a precedent. Everyone’s great-great-grandsire had had a precedent. That was what territorial wars were all about. Rohan condemned himself for a fool, because another war seemed ready to break out right now. But he had no one other than himself to blame for this.

  Yet as he glanced toward the High Prince, wondering why Roelstra did not intervene to settle this, he learned something very interesting. Roelstra actually wanted them at each other’s throats. The conflict between Saumer and Volog had ignited the same kind of argument between the princes of Firon and Fessenden. And though Roelstra’s face was composed into serious lines, his eyes were laughing. Their disunity was his goal and his delight. Divisiveness was the key to his personal power.

  Rohan sat back in his chair, chewing his lip. He had never realized before how Roelstra kept the princes doing pretty much what he wanted. Now he understood. They fought among themselves, encouraged by the High Prince, who waited until factions were ready to tear each other to shreds before proposing some compromise that would see both sides indebted to him for the settlement. And Roelstra would call it “peacemaking.”

  Rohan stared down at his hands to hide the disgust he knew must be in his eyes. He wanted only to claim what was his and nurture it in real peace. Care, caution, and cooperation coaxed the Desert into bloom; his vassals had to work in concert to survive, pushing aside their petty differences. It was not the same in richer lands. There was little work involved in bringing forth fruit and flowers from Princemarch or Ossetia or Kierst-Isel. The rulers of those lands had time for other things, and for many years Roelstra had seen to it that their energies had been wasted in quarrels. All that time, all those resources, all that power of mind and wealth—and it had been squandered. Rohan felt as angry at the waste as if he had caught someone purposely draining precious water from the cisterns at Stronghold.

  Government was the fine art of coordination. Rule was the subtle and divisive art of power. What Rohan wanted most—peace by rule of laws understood by all—Roelstra would work to prevent with all his might. Rohan understood that now. More, he understood Ianthe’s desperation which had driven her to him last night. She had seen the chance of gaining power through him, and it was the only thing she had ever learned how to want. She had only her father’s example of waste and treachery to learn from.

  Suddenly he thought of Sioned, and his heart ached. He himself had played at Roelstra’s game of divisiveness without even knowing it, setting Sioned against the princesses the way Roelstra set the princes against each other while he sat back and enjoyed the show. Rohan had even pitted his own heart against what his mind had made him think was so very clever. But he could not live that way. He needed Sioned beside him—openly, honestly, freely. He saw himself now as an arrogant child who had played the wrong game and hurt not only her but himself in the process.

  He became aware that Prince Lleyn was watching him. The faded blue eyes smiled knowingly for a moment, and then the old man got to his feet.

  “My lords,” he said; then, more loudly, “My lords!” They settled down. “I congratulate Prince Rohan on his excellent if revolutionary idea. But I suggest that without maps and documentation, we’re wasting our time.”

  “Can you solve our problems, cousin?” Roelstra asked smoothly.

  “I believe so. We must apply to Lady Andrade.”

  “For what?” Saumer asked, a world of suspicion in two syllables.

  “Not for a ruling, certainly,” Lleyn reassured him. “But before the next Rialla she might be persuaded to organize land claims so everyone will know where everyone else stands—literally. I suggest that we save the drawing of borders until three years hence, and search our archives for proper precedent.”

  “I approve,” the High Prince said. “Your words are wise, as ever. In fact, I am inspired by them to suggest something else rather new. I propose that until we have all agreed on our borders, that things as they stand now be considered the legitimate boundaries of our lands, to be revised as necessary in three years’ time. I further propose that any prince who attacks another be swiftly punished by the rest of us.”

  Saumer frowned. “Let me understand this, Roelstra. If, say, Haldor attacks Chale over a few square measures that are in dispute—”

  “Then I would be there with all my armies as soon as I could to defend Prince Haldor’s rights. And those of us on the border of Meadowlord or Syr—Prince Rohan, for instance—would come to Haldor’s defense as well. It would take much of the profit out of war, and we could cease spending our substance on useless wars.”

  “I like it,” Ajit of Firon declared.

  “So do I,” said Saumer, with an eye on Volog, who smiled.

  “May I speak?” Rohan heard himself say.

  “Please do, cousin,” Roelstra replied graciously.

  “I think that Prince Lleyn should be the ultimate arbiter of any serious disputes. These are not matters for Lady Andrade to decide, and on his island Lleyn has little interest in who owns what on the continent.”

  “Are you agreeable to this proposal, Lleyn?”

  The old man bowed to the High Prince. “I shall do myself the honor of accepting the task.”

  Sanity at last, Rohan thought gratefully.

  “I hope,” Roelstra went on, “that we will be able to work out differences between ourselves without bothering Lleyn.” The hint was not missed by a single man present, not even Saumer.

  “And now, my lords, we deserve a rest. Prince Vissarion has kindly provided refreshment in his tent. We meet back here this afternoon.”

  Rohan escaped from the close atmosphere of the violet tent and drew up the hood of his cloak against the rain. The morning had not been quite the disaster he’d feared at one point, but there were many things he had to think through. He needed privacy, and there was none to be found in his own camp. At Stronghold he could have disappeared for hours as he chose, but where could a prince hide at the Rialla?

  He went down to the river, hoping no one else would venture out in the rain for a stroll, and from the corner of his eye caught sight of Meath slinking around the trees on the opposite shore. He supposed he ought to be reassured by the zeal of those who watched over him, but the constant surveillance annoyed him, too. Briefly he considered making a game of it, trying to outwit the faradhi, but the dutiful portion of him forbade it. He would be an idiot to go off alone without escort, what with the Merida possibly roaming around.

  Rohan finally saw the perfect place for privacy: the steps leading up to the bridge. He felt a little foolish as he slid beneath them and hunkered down out of the rain, but Meath could think what he liked. He drew his cloak more tightly around him—like a dragon with wings folded against the rain, he told himself with a grin. The wooden planks above leaked a little, and he shifted around to find a spot where he wouldn’t get dripped on, finally settling down snug and hidden from prying eyes.

  The morning had not been so bad, he reflected, though Roelstra’s suggestion about mutual aid and defense troubled him. The possibilities for mischief were endless. He set himself to thinking as the High Prince might—something far too easy for his peace of mind—and the scenes that played out in his head were far from reassuring. Any attack, no matter who arranged it, would compel the other princes into punitive action. Questions would come only later—if the fighting stopped. For there were factions among the princes that would not vanish in the face of any treaty. Athr’im picked fights with each other all the time, more often than not on the orders of their princes, who usually kept out of the actual battles. Rohan’s own father had used the tactic often enough, though he had loved fighting and was always in the thick of any minor war. Rohan, however, had no intention of living that way.

  But he could easily imagine a force of mercenaries laying siege to a keep and placing the blame on someone else. High Prince Roelstra could march through i
n the attacked prince’s defense—and work whatever damage he cared to inflict. By the time everything had been sorted out, no one would be certain what had happened.

  Still, perhaps everyone would think twice now about making war. Localized conflicts were one thing; major wars were to no one’s profit. Rohan shrugged, knowing that all he could do was hope for the best.

  He felt better about his own proposal of legal borders. Not for nothing had he gone over every document in Stronghold’s archives. He already knew what was legally his—not only regarding the Merida, but along his borders with Syr, Princemarch, Meadowlord, and Cunaxa as well. He would have to give up a farm or two, but he would also gain substantial properties in return. In all his vast holdings, he could afford to cede a little in exchange for undisputed right to the rest of it. The vassals involved would have to be appeased, of course, now that they were going to own the land, but thanks to his father he had money enough to soothe the loss of a few square measures here and there.

  What a dragon’s egg he had cracked today, he thought with a smile. The princes would go mad rummaging around for old treaties and the surveys made by faradh’im long ago. In their searching they would, without even realizing it, come to value the precedent of law. With luck and a push here and there, he could persuade them to extend that belief to other things.

  Footsteps sounded on the bridge above him, returning from the other bank, and for a moment he thought it must be Meath. But the steps were too light to belong to the big Sunrunner. As the person descended to the gravel shore, curiosity got the better of him. He peeked out from his shelter and with complete delight recognized the girl wrapped in a cloak much too short for her.

  “Sioned!”

  “Who’s there?” She whirled around, fear in her voice.

  “It’s only me. Rohan. I’m under the steps. Come in out of the rain.”

  She approached, her riding boots muddy to the knees, and bent to peer in. “Whatever are you doing?”

  “I could ask you the same. Come on.” He held out a hand, which she ignored. “You’re supposed to be safe and dry inside your tent,” he scolded as she crouched down beside him.

  “Your damned leaky tent,” she corrected. “And you’re supposed to be in a conference.”

  “I got bored.” He shifted around to kneel behind her, careless of the mud, and began rubbing her arms and shoulders. She was shivering beneath the fur-lined cloak. “You’re soaked through! How long have you been outside, woman? Here, let me warm you up.” He tried to draw her back against him, intending to hold her while explaining his discoveries of the morning, but she shrugged him off angrily.

  “Don’t handle me as if I’m your property,” she muttered. “You don’t own me yet, my lord prince.”

  Bewildered, he kept his mouth shut. A few moments later he was rewarded for his self-control.

  “I saw Ianthe last night, coming out of your tent! The only reason I’m even speaking to you is that she didn’t look very happy.”

  Rohan was glad her back was to him so she missed his delighted grin. “I didn’t give her much reason to be. You conjured Fire last night, didn’t you?”

  “What if I did?” she said sulkily. “She was there to seduce you or kill you, and I wasn’t about to let her do either.”

  “I wonder which would have been worse?”

  She twisted around and stared at him, her lashes all tangled with raindrops he longed to kiss. “How I’d love to be able to hate you,” she whispered.

  Rightly interpreting this as a declaration of emotions having nothing to do with hatred, Rohan took her in his arms. They sat there in the mud beneath the leaky bridge and kissed each other, hampered by the bulk of their clothing, the chill, and a total lack of adequate space. Rohan had never been happier in his life.

  They might have stayed like that all afternoon and well into the evening, but gradually Rohan became aware that rain no longer dripped into his hair, the blue-gray dimness of their hideaway had brightened with sunlight. Reluctantly he eased his hold on her. She pressed her hands to his chest and nestled her head comfortably against his shoulder.

  “There’s so much to tell you, and there’s never any time. Rohan, meeting in secret will be fun once we’re married and don’t have to in order to talk to each other, but for now it’s getting ridiculous!”

  “Just wait till I get you alone in Stronghold this winter,” he promised.

  “Saddle the horses and let’s go home, then!” She laughed and moved away from him. “Only a little while longer, I know. Just remember that I don’t really mean the things I say around other people.”

  “Not even about the river stones?” he teased. “I found them last night. Very romantic!”

  She turned crimson and pushed at his shoulders. “Get out of here before they miss you. And go change clothes—you’re caked in mud.”

  “So much for romance.” He stole another kiss. “As for you, my lady, go dry off and get into something warm.”

  “I was warm until you let go,” she complained, her arms sliding around him again. “Stop that. Sioned, I absolutely forbid you to seduce me.”

  “Will I need to?” She giggled. “Oh, very well. I’ll go. I suppose it wouldn’t be very elegant of me to sneeze my way through our wedding. I’m going to look gorgeous in those emeralds, you know.”

  “Greedy witch,” he accused. “Just for that, I’ll have your necklet made of river stones after all.”

  “Oh, no, you won’t!” She took his face between her hands and kissed him soundly. When she let him go, he said the only thing possible under the circumstances.

  “I love you!”

  The green eyes filled with tears. “You’ve never said that before.”

  “Of course I have!”

  “No. That was the first time.”

  “But you knew, Sioned. You must’ve known.”

  “I like to hear it sometimes, Rohan. It makes things easier.”

  “What things, love? The princesses? Don’t pay them any attention.”

  “You did,” she reminded him tartly. “But it’s not really them.”

  “Then what is it?”

  She lifted the hand that wore his emerald. “I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to wear these other rings honestly.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  A small sigh escaped her. “I don’t know anymore what I’m supposed to be. Sunrunner or princess or both? I feel—caught.”

  He finally understood her earlier words. “Sioned, no one can own you unless you allow it. Not me, not Andrade. Anyone who tries will want to use you. I promise I won’t do that. I love you so much—I don’t ever want to see you hurt. Don’t be afraid of me, love. I won’t trap you.”

  “You already have.” She forestalled his protest with another kiss. “Just keep your other promise, Rohan. Always be honest with me. Please.”

  They crept out of the small space, shivering in the brisk wind that had blown the clouds away, and parted—she returning to her fellow Sunrunners, he to his fellow princes. Neither of them noticed their shadows: one a faradhi, one a squire, one an expert swordsman of Rohan’s own guard. And none of these saw the figure in a dark violet cloak who stood concealed by a tree, hate seething in her dark eyes.

  The next afternoon Lady Andrade stood in the conference tent, setting the seal of Goddess Keep on a score of documents. All the princes watched as she dripped hot black wax onto the white ribbons Urival had placed on each parchment and pressed her seal to leave an image of the great castle. Secretaries had been at work all day to make the requisite number of copies—and there were plenty to be made, Andrade reflected, with her nephew’s name on quite a few of them. Privately she was amazed at what he had accomplished here. He had gained a good deal and given away just as little as Zehava ever had. Andrade suspected that the other princes were beginning to realize that behind the guileless smile and innocent blue eyes were a cunning brain and a driving ambition, but they were all eager to conclude
treaties with the man they thought would soon be Roelstra’s son-by-marriage. The High Prince had led them to believe it; Rohan had not had to say or do a thing. And all the princes were locked into these agreements for the next three years.

  She nodded cordially to Roelstra when the last document bore her seal, and he turned to the assembled princes. “Cousins, I thank you for a peaceful and profitable Rialla. May we all reap our just rewards from our work here, and meet in even greater friendship three years hence.”

  As they bowed to Andrade and filed out of the tent, she drew her cloak a little closer against the sharp breeze coming through the entry. Urival replaced ribbons, seal, and wax in their case and stacked Goddess Keep’s copies into a coffer for transport. The neat, graceful movements of his hands caught her attention, lulling her somehow, and she gave a start as Roelstra’s voice came from behind her.

  “A few moments of your time, Andrade, if I may.”

  “Of course. Urival, I’ll expect the catalog to be done by tomorrow morning. Get Camigwen to help you. She has a clear hand.”

  “If I can pry her away from Ostvel,” he murmured with a slight smile. He gathered up the two cases, bowed, and left her alone with the High Prince.