Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince

by Melanie Rawn

  Maarken would be his heir, if the need arose. If Chay and Tobin decided that their firstborn would be happier with only Radzyn as his share, then there were the two younger boys, Sorin and Andry. In any case, a prince of Zehava’s blood would rule over the Desert when Rohan was gone.

  It was not until much later, when he and Sioned had gone upstairs at last, that he realized he had tacitly admitted he might not have any sons at all.

  Chapter Twenty

  Princess Ianthe ripped open her father’s seal and unfolded the parchment, scowling as she noted the date of the letter. She reminded herself of dear, dead Pallia’s warning about wrinkles and smoothed her face into more pleasant lines. But her irritation was not so easily banished; it had taken fully ten days for this letter to arrive from Castle Crag. Through winter snows, spring runoff, summer heat, autumn rain—not to mention rockslides, bandits, or plain bad luck—the couriers never moved fast enough to suit her. Andrade’s interdict on Castle Crag and Feruche was a vast inconvenience. But the messages that passed between father and daughter could not have been entrusted to a Sunrunner in any case, she reminded herself, not even one seduced by dranath as Crigo had been.

  As usual, Roelstra wasted no time on family news. Neither he nor Ianthe cared about her sisters. Besides, she had her spies in his household just as he had watchers in hers who reported anything of interest. It was part of the cynical, amusing game they played in pretending to trust one another. His opening “Dearest Daughter” was in the same vein.Plague deaths have opened up many excellent possibilities, most notably Einar for me and Tiglath for you. Kuteyn of Einar’s surviving son is now a lad of ten winters, and his widow is a simpering nonentity incapable of governing her own maids, let alone the city and its lands. Additionally, certain documents have come to light suggesting that those lands once belonged to Princemarch. Pimantal of Fessenden will be irked by this, as he has eyes on the same territory. Saumer of Isel will support my claim on this, you will be happy to know, for we recently concluded a secret agreement based on my controlling Einar. You may so inform his agents in your court—and in Volog’s halls as well, so he may decide whether his profit lies in supporting me or Fessenden. He grew used to working with Saumer when the Plague forced them to it. This may continue.

  Insofar as Tiglath is concerned, you know of course that Eltanin lost his fair-haired darling bride in childbed and their first son to the Plague. The second boy thrives, but Eltanin himself is reported much aged, the result of his personal losses and his own slow recovery from the Plague. Others are similarly weakened, but more of this at another time.

  Our Merida allies tell me they are preparing an assault against Tiglath as soon as Rohan is at the Rialla. THIS MUST NOT HAPPEN. We must adhere to our original plan. And I warn you, dearest daughter, that self-indulgence at this time would be fatal.

  The princess’ lips curved in a sarcastic smile. The pointed reference to her many lovers was unnecessary. She had not been touched since the beginning of winter, and made very sure that her household knew she slept alone. There were visitors enough to Feruche that would attest to her chastity during this period, persons who could have no stake in the game she and her father would soon play in earnest.Speak to your Merida cub at the earliest opportunity. Do not let their hot blood ruin our plans for Rohan and his Sunrunner witch. Let the Merida know in the strongest terms that if they spoil this, they will find themselves positively yearning for their wastelands from the smallest, darkest cells in the lowest depths of Castle Crag.

  Regarding your unsubtle hints about the future of your sons—if they are like you and me, and I suspect that they are, then telling them what they will have when they are grown will do no good. Currently Rusalka and Kiele are battling for position over young Lord Lyell of Waes, who needs a bride. I find this as amusing as the days when you and your sisters were at it over Rohan. Daughters vie with each other over men—but sons fight over castles and power. Let us see how your boys turn out before we promise them anything.

  In any case, Ianthe, with any luck they will be ruling the Desert when they are grown men. They can wait, and take what they like at that time.

  She sighed ruefully. She had anticipated this reply and had not really expected her suggestions to find any favor with him. It would have been useful to have in writing gifts of land and castle for her sons, but Roelstra was correct in many ways: they would only grow up trying to outmaneuver each other. Ianthe intended they should work together as much as their ambitious natures would allow. She had no illusions about their acquisitive instincts. Ruval at four and Marron at barely three already fought over almost everything, and year-old Segev watched his brothers’ battles with great interest.

  Their fathers were highborn men of excellent lineage and spectacular beauty. Ianthe sighed again at the thought of them: Chelan with his smoldering eyes and perfect body, Evais’ incredible imagination in bed, Athil’s erotic games. Poor Athil. He had not been content with clothes and jewels and fine horses as the others had been. He had wanted marriage to the favorite daughter of the High Prince. His sunlight fairness had reminded her of Rohan, and it had been surprisingly difficult to order his death, annoying as his demands had become. At least Chelan and Evais had had the sense to leave when told. It amused her to reflect that she would have jumped at the chance to marry any of them while she still lived at Castle Crag. Years of exercising absolute authority in her own keep had taught her that marriage was not for her.

  Yet memories of nights with her lovers stirred her vitals, and she damned the scheme that dictated her continued abstinence. Her spies at Castle Crag told her that her father disported himself with anything in skirts these days, but there had been no more children—not even daughters. Ianthe chuckled, for reports also featured rumors that Roelstra was impotent. Served him right.

  His letter ended with a caution that this was to be their last communication for a long time. Ianthe felt no regret. She burned the parchment and left her private chamber, glad she would not have the trouble of composing a reply. She was compelled to restrain her temper with her father, a discipline she found more and more irksome as the years went on.

  Her women were hard at work in the weaving room. The great tapestry with its matching pillows and bed hangings was nearly complete, and Ianthe inspected the work with growing excitement. The tapestry depicted various stages of the dragons’ mating ritual, fascinating scenes woven in brilliant, clashing colors chosen by the princess herself. One panel showed males battling in the sand, their talons picked out in crimson and orange, blood dripping from their gaping jaws and from rents in their hides. The violence continued into the next panel, where ten females heavy with eggs circled above a cliff where a male displayed himself in ritual dance, his virility almost obscene.

  The third panel depicted male and female in the act, dagger-teeth bared, tongues lashing out, bodies almost visibly writhing. Golden sand spewed up around them in the hot darkness of the cave. There was a terrible fascination in the rutting that made Ianthe smile.

  The last panel was near completion, about half of it still only sketched in thread and not yet filled in. It was a scene of young hatchlings battling each other, white shells contrasting with blue, dark scarlet, bronze, and coppery hides. A strong young dragon dug his talons into a dead sibling, about to devour him. But in the shadows another hatchling waited, his eyes picked out in livid red as he watched the carnage and sought his chance.

  The pillows were small vignettes of mating dragons and fighting sires, hatchlings feeding off each other, flames searing into cavern shadows. They had been her rejected designs for the larger tapestry. The bed hangings snowed more scenes of savage mating, and when closed around a bed the thickly stitched curtains would produce a small cave of erotic violence.

  Ianthe smiled her approval of the work and left the room, thinking of the lover for whom she had planned the weavings as she went up to the battlements to enjoy the dry breeze that lifted her hair from her nape and fluttered the
hem of her gown. Below her was the border where Rohan’s garrison sheltered in barracks carved into the cliffs. Three times in the last years Ianthe had sent for their captain when the Merida attacked trade caravans, attacks she planned most carefully for times when she wished the prince to know she had been delivered of a son. She laughed lightly and leaned against the pink stone wall, remembering the pleasure of flaunting her sons—sons his faradhi bitch would never bear him. But the fourth summons had gone down to the captain only fifteen days ago, and the attack had been arranged for a different reason. When the garrison captain had arrived, Ianthe had invited him to dinner as was customary by now—and had talked of dragons. There were ancient caves in the higher mountains where the great beasts might go this year to mate. Rohan was interested in anything concerning dragons, and by now had undoubtedly been told about these caves. But even if he did not investigate on his own, Ianthe had other plans. She had learned in a hard school that one must always have other plans.

  She turned as her eldest son called out imperiously, and saw the nurse bringing all three boys for an evening hour with their mother. She kissed them all and dandled the youngest on her knee, gloating. Strong, healthy boys they were, long-limbed and handsome like their fathers, clever and quick-witted like her. Ruval and Marron chattered of the day’s doings, fighting as usual over who had thrown a ball farther and run faster. She had produced sons, where the Sunrunner could not even carry a child halfway to term. She knew all about Sioned’s failure to produce an heir, rejoicing that the difficulty was natural and she had not been put to the trouble of arranging miscarriages for the faradhi.

  She wondered what the Desert had done to the woman these last six years. Scrawny and withered, Ianthe told herself scornfully, her skin lined and rough, for she was not the type to pay strict attention to her looks. Motherhood had ripened Ianthe’s beauty, turned girlish slimness to lush curves of breast and hip and thigh, though she had been careful to keep her waist trim. She had been just as careful to guard her skin and hair from the ravages of hot sun and wind, and had used Palila’s tricks to prevent her pregnancies from marking her flesh. She would require all her perfections for this game, and knew herself to be flawlessly beautiful.

  Marron climbed up onto her lap, nearly dislodging Segev, who screamed and clung to her with one hand while battering at Marron with the other. Ianthe hugged them to her breast, cherishing her triumph in their existence. When they were grown, they would hold the Desert and rule over Princemarch besides. The path to power for a woman lay in the men she controlled, and she laughed aloud as she played with her sons. The lands and castles might become theirs, but they were forever hers.

  Tobin folded her hands in her lap and looked up at her husband. The morning sunlight that shone off his dark hair showed the faintest traces of silver. He wore supple riding leathers that clung to the long muscles of his thighs, and his open-throated shirt revealed an expanse of strong chest, sun-browned from long days outside. He stood before her, boots planted firmly on the sandy beach, scowling.

  “You’re giving me that look again,” she observed.

  “You were far away from me again,” he countered.

  “I’m always right here, love.”

  “Your body, yes.” He dropped down beside her and rested his elbows on his drawn-up knees, staring out at the Sunrise Water. “I can’t say I understand where the rest of you goes.” He shrugged. “Just so you always come back, Tobin. I keep thinking about what happened the night of Zehava’s ritual. I almost lost you.”

  Tobin looked down at her hands. On the middle finger of the left was the first Sunrunner’s ring, sent by Andrade two years ago, set with a small chunk of rough amber. Talisman against danger, she reminded herself, and sighed. She felt the need of protection now.

  She and Chaynal had gone out riding early, trying the paces of two newly broken mares along the beach below Radzyn Keep. The sea was laced with white foam as it reached greedily onto the sand. A measure to the north along the bay was their port district where ships of all sizes folded their sails to become a winter-bare forest of masts as cargoes were off-loaded. It was good to see ships in the harbor again; their presence meant trade was at last resuming its usual pattern after the desperate years of the Plague and its after-math. Radzyn was the only safe anchorage along the Desert coast, and Chay’s forebears had grown rich on trade long before they had started breeding the finest horses on the continent.

  Tobin had brought an impromptu breakfast along, and after tethering the horses to a driftwood log had spread out a feast of flaky pastries stuffed with fruit and meat. But the morning had been interrupted in a fashion she had grown more or less accustomed to over the years, for a gentle whisper had touched her mind, and with it the feel of Sioned’s colors. Once again she had been caught up in this strange and wondrous thing Sioned had taught her how to do. As many times as they had communicated this way, she was always enchanted by the sweet clarity of her sister-by-marriage’s light. Though at times there were darker accents when Sioned was troubled or unhappy, the colors were always fresh and shone with the beauty of her spirit. Tobin treasured her touch.

  Her gaze returned to Chay and another smile crossed her features. He was made of ruby and emerald and sapphire, all the deep strong hues that were the perfect foil for her own amber and amethyst and diamond. It had impressed Sioned that Tobin thought exclusively in gem colors, for the faradh’im of old had symbolized their patterns of light with precious stones and considered them representative of certain powers and qualities of spirit. It had pleased Tobin that Andrade’s gift of a first Sunrunner’s ring had been set with amber. And the thought of protection against danger returned her thoughts to where they had begun.

  “Rohan’s going dragon-hunting up around Skybowl, perhaps even as far north as Feruche,” she said.

  Chay stared at her. “You’re joking! I’ve told that idiot he shouldn’t ride within fifty measures of Feruche!”

  “When have any of us ever been able to tell him anything?” she asked rhetorically. Digging her fingers into the warm sand, she felt the gritty coolness beneath, the pressure that trapped her hands. “Sioned doesn’t seem worried about it.”

  “But there’s something else, isn’t there? And it’s not hard to guess what.” Chay shook his head. “She’s bound to have heard the rumors. There are several vassals who want Rohan to put her aside for another wife, or at least take a mistress who’ll give him an heir.”

  “And she’s just fool enough to listen. Chay, she’d never give him up—and he’d never let her go.”

  “Sweet wife, everybody knows that. But you know who the heir presumptive is, don’t you? And that means I can’t say a word. If I defend Sioned, they’ll think I want Maarken to be the next prince. And I’m damned if I’ll encourage the idea of a new wife or a mistress!”

  “There has to be something we can do. I’m not sure Maarken would want the burden of a princedom. He’s been so fragile since Jahni died.” She could still see him wandering around Radzyn, searching for his brother, or waking up in the middle of the night crying out for him.

  Chay drew patterns in the sand with one finger. “He doesn’t need the Desert crown hanging over his head. In many ways he’s like me, Tobin. We’re good at things on a Radzyn scale, but we’d be hopeless at running a whole princedom.”

  “I don’t agree with you, but I understand what you’re trying to say. You’d both be unhappy living anywhere but here by the sea. It’s taken Maarken quite a while to adjust to Lleyn’s court, much as he’s fond of the old prince. Meath has told me on the sunlight that he did better once they gave him a room overlooking the bay.”

  “Where else could we have sent him? There’s no safer place. Whether we like it or not, he’s Rohan’s heir.”

  “No one would dare attempt Maarken’s life!”

  “Not while he’s in Lleyn’s care, no. But where do you think Roelstra would stop? And, failing him, the Merida? They don’t have any tender feelings towa
rd me, you know. Graypearl is the only place for Maarken until he’s old enough to defend himself.” He smiled slightly. “Even if he does get sick crossing water. Should we have expected that?”

  “Andrade seemed to. And he’s working with Meath and Eolie.” Her hands clenched around the sand. “Damn Roelstra!”

  “And Rohan wants to get within spitting distance of Ianthe.” Chay shook his head. “My love, have I ever told you that your brother is a fool?”

  “I’ve known him longer than you have. He’s fool enough to go for the throat of anyone who suggests anything about Sioned. Are you sure there’s nothing we can do or say to keep the vassals quiet? They’re bound to mention it.”

  “They can try,” he answered grimly. “We’ll just have to trust what little sense Rohan has to keep Sioned from acting on any insane ideas.” He squinted into the morning sunlight and got to his feet. “Sails coming in, and a turquoise banner. The Syrene ship finally made it.”

  “From Prince Jastri? What does he want? And why come in a ship?”

  “He wants horses. What else? And the ship means he wants them fast. I’m only a minor athri, love. I trade in what I understand, and leave the fancy politics to others.” He helped her to her feet. “I’ll send Jastri’s emissary around to you after we’ve finished haggling over horseflesh. You hear things in people’s words that I never do.”

  “Minor athri,” she scoffed. “Warlord bred of ten generations of pirates—and legalized thief into the bargain.”