by Melanie Rawn
“It’s all right,” Rohan said, careless of paternal discipline. “It’s good to see them having fun.”
“Well, no more dragons today, at any rate,” Ostvel ordered, and scooped his son into one arm. “Come along, Tilal. You’ll want to spend some time getting the grass stains out of my cloak, I’m sure.”
“But I have to serve at the high table tonight,” the boy began with a hopeful glance up at Rohan.
“And so you shall,” Ostvel agreed. “The cloak will be waiting for you.”
Rohan turned from the windows, keeping his smile in place to hide the child-hunger that rose in him. His sons should be down there, laughing and growing and playing dragons. His sons. . . . His eye lit on the reports and he made a quick decision. “I’m not going to play prince tonight, Walvis. I want a bath, my dinner, and my wife—in that order.”
The young man grinned at him. “So now my lady takes third place to being clean and fed?”
“Unless she wants a dirty, bad-tempered husband, she does!” Walvis went downstairs with the orders, and the household system Camigwen had created went smoothly into action. By the time Rohan was soaking in a tub, a copious supper for two was being prepared for delivery to their graces’ airy chambers. Like most persons for whom such establishments are formed, Rohan was unaware of its workings. He only knew that the few orders he ever had to give were carried out promptly, quietly, and with a minimum of fuss—and none of the former chamberlain’s hand-wringing.
Alone in the blue-and-white tiled bathroom, Rohan’s thoughts returned to his interrupted musings on the past. Acquiring the dranath had afforded him a sight of someone he had not thought to encounter again: Princess Ianthe. Roelstra had been unable to resist the price Rohan had offered for the drug, and a detachment of troops had been dispatched to Feruche from the Veresch. Rohan and Farid had met the group halfway between Ianthe’s castle and Skybowl, and bags of gold had been exchanged for bags of dranath. Ianthe had watched from the saddle of a splendid white mare, lovelier than ever and unashamedly—even triumphantly—pregnant. She still had no legal husband, but Rohan suspected that the beautiful young man riding at her side was the baby’s father. Certainly his charms were sufficient to send lust raging through chaster hearts than Ianthe’s. Rohan said nothing to her and met her gaze only once—and what he saw in her eyes had chilled him to his marrow.
How had he paid for this treasure of dranath that had saved dragon lives? How had he insured their survival and distributed even more of the drug to other princedoms without asking payment? Rohan luxuriated in cool bath water and shook his head in wry amusement, remembering his stark astonishment when Farid had casually shown him the gold.
For fifteen years, the athri of Skybowl had been melting dragon shells collected from long-abandoned caves in the hills. He had done it in secret and under Zehava’s orders, his people loyal to their last breath as they brought forth the gold that had enabled Zehava to consolidate his power in the Desert. Everyone had always marveled at Skybowl’s prosperity, that rough holding without decent farmland or grazing, and Rohan had finally discovered the source of Farid’s complacency during good harvests and bad. Dragon gold. Zehava had forbidden the athri to tell Rohan of its existence, for he had wanted his son to become strong in his own right without having the prop of unlimited wealth from the very start of his reign.
“But why?” Rohan fumed as Farid told him this. “I, myself, found gold dust in a dragon’s cave years ago. I never had the time to pursue this discovery before now. Why keep it from me?”
Farid shrugged. “Do you remember when he tossed you into the lake when you were a little boy?”
“And now you’re pulling me out—just like before!”
“I would have told you eventually, once you’d found your feet as a prince. Your father didn’t want things to be easy for you.”
“Easy?” Rohan echoed in amazement. “With the Merida and Roelstra and the dragons—not to mention all those damned princesses—easy?”
Farid had laughed, and after a moment Rohan’s sense of humor triumphed over his outrage. Part of his mirth had been caused by the wonderful joke he would play on Roelstra, for instead of beggaring himself and his vassals or making odious concessions to the High Prince, there was unlimited gold to fill his coffers even after the grotesque sum paid for the dranath. But there had been bitterness in his laughter as well, for Zehava, even knowing how necessary the dragons were, had gone on killing them. Rohan surmised that his father considered his warrior’s reputation to be of more importance than the survival of the dragons and that he had further assumed Rohan would, when he became prince, devise a way to preserve their numbers and therefore their output of gold.
A clever and ruthless man, Zehava—but he had reckoned without the Plague. Rohan shook his head again and got out of his bath. He let the air dry him and, wrapped in a thin silk robe, went into the bedchamber. The serenity of the rooms his mother had created for him and Sioned soothed him as always. Nothing that had been his parents’ remained but for the huge bed in which generations of princes had been conceived, had given their first cries, and had breathed their last. The rich, bright colors of Zehava’s day had been replaced by deep greens and blues that complimented Sioned’s fire-gold looks and Rohan’s blondness. Tables, chairs, and wardrobes of heavy dark wood had given way to lighter, more casually elegant furniture. He had rarely been comfortable in these rooms when his parents had inhabited them, and had been surprised at how quickly they had become his refuge. Here he and Sioned had loved each other through nights without end, shared secrets and plans and dreams for the future. And here, too, he had wept with her over the loss of their children.
The first time had been the winter after their marriage; the second, that next autumn. She carried each child just long enough to thicken her waist a little. Pregnant again the summer of the Plague, the disease had not robbed her of the child; the dranath had. The heavy dosage necessary to save her life had devastated her faradhi senses and come close to addicting her to the drug. Even in the ungifted, the required amount brought hallucinations as Rohan remembered only too well from his own brief illness. He and Sioned had both survived; their child had not, and there had been no sign of another since.
Rohan sat down at a table spread with silk and silver and the Fironese crystal goblets Sioned had bought at the Fair six years ago. Ianthe had spoiled that night for them, and Rohan’s brows knotted at thought of the princess. She had three fine sons by three different lovers, and had protected them and her castle against Plague by having anyone who showed signs of any illness thrown down the cliffs. Rohan could not entirely condemn her for that. He knew he would have done the same if there had been any chance of saving his mother or Camigwen or Jahni, sparing Sioned an instant’s suffering, or keeping their child alive within her body. He had himself executed seven people with his own sword when they were caught hoarding dranath to sell at staggering prices. But the law would say he had done justice where Ianthe had done deliberate murder. Yet he could not condemn her. He understood.
A small whirlwind blew in through the outer door and forgot to close it behind him. Rohan gasped at the impact of Riyan’s small body against his chest and hugged back.
“Papa says for me to say I’m sorry,” the boy explained. “I’m sorry!”
“Apology accepted—if you’ll let me breathe!” Rohan laughed and settled Riyan onto one knee. Camigwen’s beautiful eyes looked at him from her son’s impish face, and Rohan hid another ache of loss behind a smile as Ostvel appeared in the doorway. “Don’t scold him. He only came to tell me he’s sorry.”
“And well he should be. Now he’s interrupted your dinner!” Ostvel lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender, grinning. “Sioned says start without her.”
“I already have.” He held Riyan out from him. “And if it’s time for my dinner, then it’s certainly time for you to be in bed, young sir. Take it as a royal command from your prince.”
The child sighed.
“You’re much more fun as my dragon,” he complained.
“I’ve heard little boys say that before. It didn’t work then and it won’t work now. Off to bed with you.” He set the boy on his feet and Riyan went to his father. Rohan had to glance away as the small fingers disappeared into Ostvel’s hand.
“My lord?”
He met his friend’s gaze, wearing another careful smile. Ostvel wasn’t fooled, but only his eyes spoke of his compassion. What he said aloud was, “Sioned also mentioned something about sneaking around in the dark.”
A genuine smile curved Rohan’s mouth. “Oh, did she, now?”
“Is it another game?” Riyan asked eagerly. “Can I play, too?”
Ostvel winked at Rohan. “When you’re older! Say good night to your prince.”
“Good night,” Riyan echoed dutifully. “Don’t forget about playing dragons.”
“I won’t forget. Sleep well.”
When the door had closed behind them, he resumed his dinner with an appetite that would have pleased Walvis, who, along with Sioned, waged a constant battle against Rohan’s tendency to work too much and eat too little. When the food was gone he lazed back in his chair, wineglass in hand. Obedient to the teasing promise they’d made, he and Sioned met every so often in the gardens late at night. Their household grinned, pretended not to notice, and strictly observed the rule that whenever the prince and princess disappeared, nothing short of the impending arrival of Roelstra’s armies was to disturb them. Such delicious foolishness was exactly what Rohan needed tonight, and when it was dark he took a full bottle of wine and the glasses with him from the chamber.
Barefoot, clad only in a thin silk robe, he went down the privy stairs and made his way through the empty gardens to the grotto. Sioned was a whispering excitement all along his body, a cool breeze through his heart and mind. He stood before the waterfall and closed his eyes, sensing her presence an instant before her arms slid around his waist and her body pressed to his back. He savored the enchantment as her lips brushed his nape.
Her first words melted the spell of contentment. “You were shut away with those reports all afternoon. We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”
“It’s nothing that can’t wait.”
She let him go and he faced her. “Tell me, Rohan.”
He lifted the bottle and glasses ruefully. “And here I thought we were going to—”
“Oh, we will,” she assured him, and bound the promise with a kiss. “But I haven’t seen you all day. Come talk to me, beloved.”
They sat together on the soft moss, her head resting on his shoulder, the wine set aside for later. In her arms he had found joy, and in her love, strength. But perhaps the gift he cherished most was the solace of her mind. Most princes merely had wives; he had found in Sioned a princess worthy of the royal circlet he had given her.
He told her about the dragons, and as he held her he felt her reactions in her body. She could keep her expression as cool and neutral as Andrade, but just as his aunt’s drumming fingers could give away her mood, Rohan had only to touch Sioned’s hand to sense her real feelings. She was tense now, lithe muscles tightening.
“We’ll have to cancel the vassals this year,” she said when he’d finished. “Then there won’t be anyone to demand a Hatching Hunt.”
“I was thinking the same thing. Feylin is right about the dragons not coming here to Rivenrock, so there wouldn’t be any sport for them anyway. But we have to summon the vassals. This is the first Rialla in six years. We all need to have a good long talk, and the ones who’ve inherited since the Plague must pledge to us in front of the others.”
“Are you going to tell them about the dragon gold? They’ve been wondering where the dranath money came from, you know. When Farid was here last year he said that his people know where the gold comes from—”
“And haven’t breathed a word about it for twenty years,” he reminded her.
“Of course not. But those who don’t actually work the caves think it’s a mine like any other, without any connection to dragons. Maybe we should tell the vassals that.”
“I’m not concerned with them as much as I am with Roelstra.” Mention of the High Prince brought even greater tension, and he stroked her back soothingly. “Watchers have been sent to Skybowl—merchants, travelers, and so forth. They come away none the wiser. Farid’s a crafty old liar, bless him. But Roelstra’s had three years to puzzle out where I got so much gold so quickly. And I don’t believe that he believes I wanted the dragons saved only because I’m a sentimental idiot.”
“He can believe what he likes! As long as no one ever finds proof, what does it matter? Your father had the right idea. Let people think your wealth comes from the spoils of war.”
“Ah, but where does it come from? The Merida didn’t have two coins to make their purses jingle when we drove them north. And we had to spend a lot to replace the animals that died of the Plague.”
“We’ve been careful,” she protested. “We’re not extravagant people. We can say that regular trade has filled our coffers again.”
“And that I’m a miser!” He chuckled. “No, love. Trade isn’t regular again yet, that’s the point. We haven’t had time enough to get rich on that. Trade will be the focus this year, more than ever before. With so many princes and athr’im dead and so many youngsters in their places, power has shifted. I’m afraid it’s gone in Roelstra’s direction, not mine. I have to counter that, and my best weapon is dragon gold.”
“Buy them?” She said as if the words had a sour taste. “How can they lean toward him when you were the one who gave them dranath!”
“I could say that they see the deaths, not the lives spared, and it would be true. I could say they suspect me of having hoarded the drug at the very beginning, and that, too, would be accurate from their point of view. But the real reason—”
“Is that Roelstra has influence with these young lordlings who understand only one kind of power. His kind. We’ll have to educate them.”
“We shall. But I don’t plan to buy them.”
“Well, you’ll have to think up a reason why you won’t be out there killing a mating sire, you know. The vassals expect it.”
“I know,” he sighed. “People have such absurd notions about proof of a prince’s virility, thanks to my father.”
Her shoulders flinched and he cursed himself. “They certainly can’t prove it by me,” she whispered.
“Sioned—my father was forty years old before I was born. There’s time.”
She pulled out of his arms and faced him. “I’ve never carried a child very long. I haven’t been pregnant since the Plague. I’m not going to give you any children, Rohan, and we both know it.”
“Stop that. We’re both young and strong—”
“You need an heir.”
He drew in a deep breath. “If it comes to it, and it won’t, then Maarken is my choice. But you shouldn’t fret about it, Sioned.”
“How can I not? Rohan, I’ve studied the law. There’s nothing that says your heir must be the son of your wife—only the acknowledged son of your body.”
“Sioned!” He grasped her shoulders roughly. “What are you talking about?”
“I won’t give up my place as your wife and your princess, but you need an heir.”
He stared at her. “So you’d send some girl to my bed and then watch her swell with my child? Could you do that, Sioned?”
“I have your heart and your mind.”
“And my body. Always. Only you. Tell me you could never do that, Sioned.”
“I could,” she insisted, though tears sprang to her eyes.
“And after the child is born, what then? Would you send its mother away? Or keep her here and watch her take precedence over you as the mother of my son? Have you thought about this at all, you little fool? You’d make me into another Roelstra!”
“I have thought about it! Rohan, I can’t give you—”
“There’s nothing I want t
hat you can’t give me. And one day we’ll give each other a son. Sioned, I wouldn’t want a child by any other woman. I couldn’t look at a son that didn’t have you in his face and his eyes.” He looked into those beautiful, doubting green eyes. “But can’t you see that it doesn’t matter to me? You’re enough. You’re more than I ever thought I’d have. Sioned, you are my life.”
And to prove it to her the only way he knew, he coaxed her down onto the moss and made love to her as the waterfall sang nearby. She wept a little, bittersweet tears tasting of her love for him and her despair that she was unable to bear a child. Afterward he rocked her against his chest, her hair a silken curtain over their bodies. When she lay quiet at last, he loosened his hold and raised himself on one elbow to look at her. Years of living in the Desert had burnished her fair skin to light gold and paled her hair a little, streaking it with blonde glints to make a finer setting for those eyes. Pride, surety of his love, and confidence in herself as a princess showed in every line of her face, as royal now as if she’d been born to it. Sioned had been a lovely girl, but maturity had transformed her into the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He traced the elegant curve of her shoulder with one finger and smiled tenderly.
“Besides which, woman, what makes you think I’d even be capable with someone else? I have an exclusive taste for long-legged redheads with green eyes.”
“Fool,” she accused.
“I know,” he agreed, pleased that she was willing to smile again. “That first summer—do you remember? I tried and tried to find a girl to go to bed with—stop laughing at me!” he chided as she giggled. “You were awful to me and you know it. Would you put me through that kind of humiliation again?”
“I just might. You’ve grown entirely too arrogant, my lord dragon prince.”
“Sioned, don’t you dare tickle me! Sioned!”
They ended up laughing, and Rohan was relieved that her moodiness had vanished. He opened the wine bottle and they drank from the Fironese goblets, listening to the waterfall and watching the stars. Yet part of him continued to worry. A son’s legitimacy was secondary to his existence—and his fitness to rule. It was entirely possible that a prince’s legitimate son would turn out a fool and his illegitimate one suited to inherit the responsibilities of a princedom. But Rohan could not imagine touching any woman other than his wife, much less begetting a bastard son.