Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince
Page 30
Andrade sat in a comfortable chair, a plate of food on her lap and a wry smile on her lips. The atmosphere of Rohan’s outdoor dinner party was romantic enough even for her fool of a nephew. Torches cast golden light over faces made rosy by wine, a breeze off the river stirred the huge buckets of flowers around the perimeter of the dancing area, and musicians played lilting tunes she recalled from her girlhood. Immune to the ambience, she watched the couples around her succumb to it—several young highborns and their Chosen ladies whom she herself would unite on the morrow, and various married couples who should have been long past such nonsense. Camigwen and Ostvel had eyes for no one but each other; Chay and Tobin were behaving as if they’d just fallen in love, standing over by Rohan’s tent feeding each other wine-soaked berries and giggling like children. Andrade sighed. She would be hard-pressed to find some intelligent conversation tonight. Thank the Goddess she had never lost either heart or head to a man. Still, as she watched a young lord glide by with his intended wife on his arm, she wondered briefly what she might be missing.
Urival approached, slightly unsteady as he balanced a bowl of fruit and wine in one hand and a goblet in the other. He sank down at her feet, smiled happily up at her, and announced, “Wonderful evening!”
“Anything becomes bearable after enough wine. How many is that for you?” She nodded at his winecup.
“My lady,” he said with mock regret, “I’ve lost count.” Then he grinned. “Rohan’s being a bit obvious, isn’t he?”
“Aren’t they all? Still, it’s good to see them happy. May the Goddess keep her blessing on them.” Her gaze sought Roelstra automatically. He was seated beneath a tree with several of his daughters.
“Don’t worry,” Urival soothed. “He hasn’t done a thing tonight except smile and eat. He doesn’t even notice what a fool Rohan’s making of himself.”
“He’s not being foolish. Sioned won’t let him.” Andrade chuckled. “Watch now—he’s gone over to her again. She’ll frown just a little, back off, and—there, she’s away!”
“It’s a good thing one of them is still sober. Were we ever that young, do you think?”
“Longer ago than I care to remember, my friend.”
Urival laughed. “Have some more wine, and you might remember more than is good for your dignity.”
Rohan, deprived of the object of his desires, went to his sister and appropriated her goblet right out of her hand. “I’m thirsty,” he explained.
“Rohan! Give that back! And stop being such an idiot with Sioned. You’re supposed to be a witless prince who hasn’t yet made up his mind—not a truly witless one who can’t hide the fact that he’s in love, or drunk, or both!”
He grinned at her, holding the goblet high out of her reach. “Neither Ianthe nor Pandsala is here yet, and they’re the only serious pretenders to my royal hand and arm and all the rest of me. Besides, I haven’t said more than ten words to Sioned all evening.” He paused. “I may dance with her, though.”
“Don’t you dare!”
“I suppose you’re right,” he sighed. “If I touched her, it wouldn’t end with just a dance.”
Chay, who had been listening with an indulgent smile, plucked his wife’s winecup from Rohan’s fingers. “All things are forgiven a drunken prince.”
“Drunk on happiness,” Rohan agreed.
Tobin giggled. “Rohan, you’re beautiful!”
“So I am! And so are you!” he added generously. “Ah, here’s Pandsala come to have her dinner at last. I’ll go be sweet to her, shall I, and confound them all!”
He danced with Pandsala and with Roelstra’s other daughters as well. He led his sister in a measure and made her laugh so hard she forgot the steps. He danced with the wives and daughters of other princes and lords, presenting them with what they expected to see: a young man excited by giving his first big party and more than a little drunk on his own wine. If anyone outside his immediate circle suspected the true source of his high spirits—well, they could suspect as they pleased until tomorrow night. He could hardly wait.
Music and wine flowed on late into the evening. The moons rose full and bright, and Rohan ordered most of the torches doused so that silver shadows could play more softly over fine silks and lovely faces. He was getting just drunk enough to risk asking Sioned to dance with him, but when he looked around there was no sign of her red-gold head. He sighed mournfully. She had probably gotten jealous again, watching him dance with every woman but her, and gone back to her tent.
Now, there was a thought.
He turned with a smile on his face and every intention of leaving his own party—to find Ianthe boldly inviting herself into his arms for the next dance. She was temptingly beautiful in a deep violet gown strewn with tiny silver beads that glistened in the moonlight. He accepted her hands on his shoulders, put his own about her waist, and they began the slow steps required by the music.
“Isn’t it interesting that they’ve stopped playing those country dances?” she asked.
“How much did you pay them?”
She threw back her head and laughed. “Quite a bit! You’re not the fool you pretend to be, Rohan. I saw that days ago.”
“You flatter me, cousin. I’m not wise enough to pretend anything.”
“You’re lying to me, cousin.” Her body pressed more closely to his and her grip on his shoulders tightened. “Wouldn’t it be nicer to lie with me rather than to me?”
“We settled that before, as I recall.”
“Ah, no.” Her fingers slid down his arms, back up to his neck, admiring him. “You need me, Rohan. There’s passion in your eyes that I can match. I can help you with my father, too—no one knows him the way I do.”
“You’re a clever girl.”
“I’m so glad you finally noticed.” Their gazes locked, bright blue to deep brown. “You want me,” she breathed. “You wanted me the other night, and you want me now.”
“I wanted a woman, and you were convenient for a time,” he said brutally. “Do you think your father would thank me for dishonoring his daughter?”
“Do you think he cares a damn for any of us?”
“Then he’s the fool, not I. He should be watching you without blinking. You’re a desperate lot, you princesses.”
“Yes,” she said softly. “Oh, yes.”
The dance and the conversation ended there. He bowed and walked away from her, seeking another goblet of wine to cool his flesh where her fingers had touched him. The same kind of Fire sprang from Sioned’s body to his own—yet it was so very different. He wondered why.
When he felt in better control of himself, he turned back to the party. But Ianthe was gone now, and so was Pandsala—and so was their father.
Sioned was not nearly as sober as her restraint in dealing with Rohan indicated. She watched from the shadow of a tent awning as he danced with any woman who caught his eye, amused until Ianthe showed up out of nowhere. The sight of them breast to breast ignited something reckless inside Sioned. The man was hers, and it was time he started acting like it. More, it was time those damned royal bitches understood just who was going to be his princess.
She giggled softly to herself when his dance with Ianthe ended and he went straight for the nearest goblet of wine, obviously in need of it. But her main attention was on Ianthe, who paused for a moment to watch Rohan with glittering dark eyes. All at once her gaze found Sioned, and hatred was scrawled all over the princess’ proud face. Sioned smiled sweetly. Ianthe glared at her, picked up her long violet skirts, and strode off into the night, Sioned drained her winecup, set it on a table, and went after her.
“Your grace!” she called mockingly, and Ianthe whirled around. They were in the area just outside Rohan’s camp, where only the moons illuminated the path. “I see you’re not wearing your silver jewelry tonight. Does this mean I should expect to find it in my tent as a token of your defeat?”
Ianthe’s brows arched delicately. “Do I look defeated to you? It’s not
a rejected woman who spends time in Prince Rohan’s arms, Sunrunner.”
“That’s an odd thing for you to say, considering how little time you spent there the other night.” Sioned knew this was a mistake. One did not humiliate a woman as potentially dangerous as Princess Ianthe. But she could not resist the chance to pay back a few insults.
Ianthe turned wordlessly away, rigid with fury, and started walking again. Sioned followed, laughing softly to taunt her. At last the princess swung around again.
“Leave me alone!”
“But I thought we were going to your tent so I could collect my winnings,” Sioned responded innocently.
“You have won nothing!”
“And you don’t even know what game’s being played!”
“You’re mistaken if you think it one of your choosing.” Ianthe suddenly smiled, sleek and superior. Sioned ignored the warning and laughed again.
“I thought it had been established that the game is Rohan’s.”
“Not tonight.” And with that the princess pulled a slim silver knife from her belt, its jeweled haft winking purple and crimson.
Sioned was delighted. She lifted one hand almost casually and the blade began to glow. Sunrunner’s Fire licked lazily along the knife, moving toward Ianthe’s fingers as Sioned exerted exquisite control. She had to admit that the princess was no coward; the tiny flames were nearly touching her hand before she finally dropped the knife.
“You faradhi witch!” Ianthe spat. “I’ll have him, one way or another—and when I’m his princess I’ll see to it that no court anywhere will have you! You’ll spend the rest of your life walled up in Goddess Keep!”
“And that’s what you’re most afraid of, isn’t it? Being likewise walled up at Castle Crag!” She gave the princess a mocking bow. “Learn the rules of the game before you try to play it, your grace. Good night.”
Sioned left Ianthe trembling with impotent fury. Exhilarated by the encounter, she nearly danced down to the river, envisioning similar scenes in the future when she would have the power of her position as princess as well as Sunrunner. The first and possibly the best would come tomorrow night when she appeared at Rohan’s side as his Chosen. The prospect of Ianthe’s rage and mortification enchanted her, and she laughed aloud.
“I had hoped to find you alone, my lady,” a familiar voice said behind her.
Palila sat on the edge of her couch, staring at Crigo’s prone body on her carpet. “Damn you, wake up!” she hissed. “You’ve had enough wine poured down you to float a merchantman!”
One of her maids stood by, wringing her hands. “My lady, he doesn’t look at all well—”
“Of course he doesn’t, you fool! Give him more wine!”
Application of another goblet of drugged wine, most of which spilled from the Sunrunner’s slack lips onto the rug, brought a groan from him. Palila gestured impatiently, and the maid helped Crigo to sit up. His dazed eyes began to focus.
“Slap him,” Palila ordered.
One blow, two—and Crigo’s hand came up to grab the woman’s wrist. “No more,” he said thickly. “Get away from me.”
“Get out,” Palila seconded. The maid fled and the door slammed closed behind her. “Can you think now, or do you need more?”
He ran a hand back through his limp hair. “I was asleep.”
“Never mind that! Allow me to tell you what you’ve missed. Roelstra has his eye on a new mistress and a new Sunrunner—and they’re the same woman!”
“Sioned?” he breathed.
“Neither you nor I can afford to let him trap her the way he trapped you with dranath.”
“Why don’t you warn her? Oh—of course. She would hardly believe you. And then there’s your little understanding with Pandsala.”
She gasped. “How did you—”
“Does it matter? Let’s just say you don’t want the girl rescued too soon. After Roelstra’s had her, Rohan won’t want her anymore and Pandsala will have a clear field. Isn’t that how it’s supposed to go, Palila?”
“You’re thinking rather precisely, considering the condition you were in when I had you brought here.”
“Amazing stuff, dranath.” He got shakily to his feet, using a chair as leverage.
“The point is that we’re both about to be replaced, and you can stop it.”
Crigo slid bonelessly into the chair, closing his eyes. “Goddess! How much did you give me?”
“Would you rather have woken up dead?” she snapped.
“Too kind, as ever. So you want me to warn her.”
“But, as you say, not too soon.”
Crigo began to laugh. “Poor Palila! Why should I help you? Seeing you go down would be my revenge on you at last.”
“Are you so deep in your drug that you don’t even care if you—”
“Your drug, dear lady, that you gave me and gave me and—” He laughed again, ending in a fit of coughing.
“If Roelstra has her, he won’t need you—and he can’t let you live! Do you really want to die?”
Crigo shrugged. “I can’t see anymore what difference it would make.” He drew in a deep breath, shook his head. “I need moonlight,” he finished curtly.
She nearly moaned with relief and gestured to the windows. “There for the taking.”
“I can’t walk that far. Help me.” As her face twisted in disgust, he snarled, “If you want this, you’ll have to help! You gave me enough to addict ten faradh’im! Damn it, Palila, help me!”
He leaned on her during the short steps to the windows. She struggled to draw aside the heavy tapestry as Crigo braced himself against the wall and caught his breath. Moonlight streamed in over his ashen cheeks, his eyes that were sunken into bruised hollows.
“Do something!” Palila ordered.
“Shut up,” he said roughly, breathing hard. “You gave me too much. I can feel it. I don’t know how soon I’ll be dead, but I know damned well I’m going to die.”
“But you can’t! Not before you—”
“Before I’ve helped you? Sweet Goddess, Palila, do you think I’m going to do this thing for you?” He gave a feeble laugh. “There’s a certain freedom to it, you know—the knowledge that you’re about to die.”
She shrank back from him. He hardly noticed. One last time he gathered his knowledge and his waning strength, one last time to weave the cool moonlight as Lady Andrade herself had taught him years ago, when he had been young and worthy of the rings he earned. He let his own colors form in his thoughts, marveling that the darkness that had dimmed them for so long now had fallen away, as if oncoming death had polished a renewed and youthful luster on gifts he had tarnished. So beautiful, he thought, fingering the strands of moonlight and weaving himself into them, this one last time as a true faradhi, a Sunrunner who could ride the light.
The sweet power rushed through him and the threads twined at his command into a single supple strand. His own colors merged into the moonlight, paled, washed away as he deliberately forgot the pattern of light that was his alone. He no longer cared. Shadow-lost would have been a terrifying death, but Crigo would die on the light. He wove himself into cool moonfire and fled into it, losing himself. The last time—but such sweet freedom on the moonlight, such final fulfilling peace.
Andrade’s rings glinted as she lifted a hand to brush what she thought was a stray insect from her forehead. Her fingers encountered nothing but a loose wisp of hair. She walked faster toward her tent, shaking her head to clear it of wine, and chided herself for succumbing to the excellent Syrene vintage Rohan had provided with dinner. The sensation of something winged touching her forehead came again, and again she wiped irritably at her brow. Then she stumbled against Urival as a deep, flesh-shrinking cry split the night sky.
Dragons. She looked up and saw their spread wings black against the stars, across the moons. “Dragoncry before dawn,” she whispered, staring up at the fierce shapes led by the single sire who again bellowed out his mastery of the sky.
“Dragoncry before dawn,” Andrade repeated in hushed tones. “Death before dawn. Can’t you feel it?” She shivered, rubbed her face with her hands. But the colors of her rings lanced into her eyes, shattered colors deliberately broken, paling shards of glass lacerating her senses. She cried out and clutched at Urival’s arm. He called her name, but she had no will or voice to reply. Her face turned to the moons, cold white light shadowed by dragonwings, merciless and beautiful. She felt a Sunrunner’s touch, heard a voice both weary and ecstatic, grasped for the fading colors. She knew who this man was, remembered the elegant pattern from years ago—but he eluded her, escaping on the thin unraveling moonlight even as she struggled to hold the weaving together. He was gone—but not before he had told her what she had to know.
“Sioned!” she screamed. “Goddess, no!”
Urival caught her up in his arms and ran headlong for her tent. Safely within the blue silk walls, the moonlight lost its hold on her. Urival placed her on the cot and crouched beside her, chafing her hands. “Tell me,” he rasped.
“Find Sioned! Tell Rohan—Roelstra has her, he’ll—”
“How do you know?”
Above them in the night the dragonsire shrieked again, and Andrade shied away from the imagined feel of his wings against her face.
“Dragoncry before dawn—Urival, he’s dead, the Sunrunner is dead—died telling me—don’t let Sioned die, too!”