Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince

by Melanie Rawn

  The newborn boy cuddled naked against her naked breasts, Rohan’s golden hair a silken cap framing his small face in light. The Fire put greenish shadows into his blue eyes as he reached a tiny fist for her unbound hair. Sioned saw herself hold the baby closer, guide him to her breast to suckle. She caught her breath in wonder. A child, a son—but then she saw her own face lift, and recoiled from the sight of the fierce, angry green eyes. There were welts across her brow and one bared shoulder, burned into her skin by her own Fire.

  The vision faded, and the fountain was only water again. The spray struck her face with a sudden wind through the garden. She shivered, drew her hands from the water and dried them absently on her skirt. Closing her eyes, she rewove the water circle and its vision in her mind. A son, held jealously to her breast; Sunrunner’s Fire scarring her face and her body. A sudden trembling shook her, but whether of joy or fear she did not want to know.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Five days later, riding up the steep path to Skybowl, Rohan still huckled over Lord Hadaan’s send-off. “Make sure that boy retains full use of his limbs and wits,” the old man had ordered gruffly. “He’ll need them if he’s to make something out of this old wreck.” Nothing else had been said of the matter, but a slap on the shoulder and the growled caution indicated Hadaan’s approval of Rohan’s choice for the next athri of Remagev. It was most gratifying, even if his shoulder had twinged all day afterward with the enthusiasm of his kinsman’s farewell salute.

  As the riders reached the lip of the ancient crater, Rohan drew rein to appreciate the vast blue lake. Skybowl Keep crouched on the shore like a bad-tempered gray dragon, wings folded at odd angles and claws dug deep into the stony soil. A road wide enough for three horses circled the lake, and a narrower path wound upward on the far side to disappear over the cliff. This led to the dragon caves.

  “It’s beautiful!” Tilal said at Rohan’s side. “All that water!”

  “You’re starting to sound Desert-bred. Perhaps while we’re here the dragons will come for a drink.”

  “Do you think so, my lord? I’ve never seen one up close, only flying over River Run. Are they really as big as people say?”

  “Bigger.” Rohan’s attention was caught by a small group of riders leaving the keep, and he squinted into the afternoon sunlight. Lord Farid was easily distinguished by his loose white robes and heavy beard, but the other four were unknown to Rohan. He touched his heels to Pashta’s ribs and rode forward.

  “My lord prince!” Farid hailed him. “If it’s dragons you’re seeking, we’ve just had word they’re on the high cliffs!”

  “Then let’s go watch!” He beckoned Walvis forward and said, “Take the others in and see to the horses. Tilal, how would you like to come with me?”

  “May I, my lord?” The boy bounced in his saddle and his horse gave an irritated snort. “I won’t get in the way, I promise.” This with a sidelong glance at Walvis, who smiled and held out a hand to take the prince’s standard.

  Rohan and Farid exchanged news as they headed for the cliff path. After a time the old man called one of his escort forward for an introduction that made Rohan forget his manners and simply stare as Feylin of Skybowl was presented to him. It seemed that his counter of dragons was a woman—and a young and pretty one at that.

  She acknowledged his surprise with a wry smile that lit up her deeply tanned face. “It’s an honor to meet you at last, my lord,” she said. “And to be chasing dragons with you!”

  “The honor is mine,” he said, recovering himself. “Forgive me for staring, but you’re very young to know so much and be so good at what you do for me.”

  “Nineteen last autumn,” she replied cheerfully. “Full young, I’ll admit, but sharp-eyed and able to count—and to make sense of what I’ve counted.”

  “So I’ve discovered.” He smiled, liking her easy manners. “Have you always watched dragons?”

  “Ever since I was a little girl. Where we lived up by the Cunaxan border, the grounds were so near that we felt the wind of their wings and made knives of their teeth.” She pulled a dagger from her belt and passed it to him, haft-first.

  The knife was suitable for stabbing, not slicing, but the point was needle fine and would go through a man’s belly all the way to his backbone. “Did you have to argue much with the dragon who used to own this?” Rohan asked as he handed it back.

  Feylin laughed and thrust the dagger back into its sheath. “Not me, my lord! I never went near their homes until they’d flown back south. Get near those rows of teeth, most of them twice the size of this one? Not me!”

  They reached the narrow path that led up the side of the crater, and it became necessary to ride single file. Rohan found it frustrating not to continue his talk with this gray-eyed girl who counted his dragons and probably knew as much about them as he did. But he promised himself a good long discussion with Feylin in private once they returned to the keep.

  It was slow going along the ledge, and as Rohan guided Pashta close behind Farid’s dappled gray, he imagined what it must be like to traverse this path with heavy dragon gold off-balancing rider and horse. A better road would have alerted outsiders to strange happenings at Skybowl, though. From the cliffs they rode down a slippery trail into a canyon where the wind had carved sculptures both beautiful and grotesque. Lumpish castles boasted graceful spires; hideous creatures sprouted multiple limbs; huge rocks seemed balanced on fragile spikes no wider than a swordblade. The rock shaded from garnet to amber to onyx, colors slicing through each other at strange, dizzying angles. The Court of the Storm God it was called, and Rohan’s active imagination created a variety of impossible monsters lurking among the shadows. He had seen the canyon in most of its moods, from blazing morning to weird sunset to skin-chilling moonlight, when the shadows blurred and sometimes tripled depending on the position of the moons in the sky.

  A full five measures of precipitous trail wound through the Court, and the riders maintained a respectful silence. Then Farid led them in the opposite direction from the caves, explaining to Rohan over his shoulder that the valley nearby was the perfect place for the dragons to perform their dances, and beyond this were more cliffs where even now the bittersweet plants were being devoured. Rohan knew the trail well; the crop of bittersweet was the one he and Farid had laced with dranath.

  He glanced around at Tilal, whose eyes were circles of astonished curiosity. A pity he was the younger son and would not inherit River Run; the education and experience he was gaining in the Desert would have made him a fine athri. Perhaps when he reached Walvis’ age and was knighted, Rohan could find a place for him that would utilize the talents being nurtured now.

  After a steep climb out of the Court they halted on a crest to look out over a sandy valley. She-dragons rested in the sun, wallowing in warmth. Pale bronze and dark scarlet and deep silver-gray hides soaked up afternoon sun; here and there a wing slowly unfolded to gather up as much heat as possible, and great heads turned with snapping jaws when a neighbor crowded too close. They were huge, deadly, the most beautiful things Rohan had ever seen—but so few. He counted rapidly, and found that of the thirty-two females Feylin had reported, only nineteen lounged here on the sand. Gesturing her to his side, he asked, “Where are the others?”

  She shrugged, tossing her untidy dark red braid back over her shoulder. “I don’t know, my lord. They may have flown off looking for caves. They won’t go near the ones at Skybowl. Lord Farid ordered them cleared out twenty days ago, hoping the dragons would use them this year, but I’m sure they sense that people have been there. Dragons are more intelligent than anybody thinks.”

  Farid guided his horse over and said, “I’m worried about the sires, too. Perhaps they’re with their other ladies, but where?”

  “The North Vere is too cold,” Feylin mused. “The eggs would take too long to hatch. Down south it’s hot enough, but except for Rivenrock most of the caves have collapsed. I made a survey last year, my lord,” she ex
plained as Rohan questioned her with a lifted brow. “The only suitable caves are here and at a place just this side of Feruche Castle. Hot enough, big enough, sturdy enough, and with bittersweet growing nearby to get those old sires ready.” She grinned. “That’s what the plant’s for, you know.”

  Rohan choked on sudden laughter. “Is it really? I’ll have to wrap some up and make a present of it to Roelstra.”

  Farid, straight-faced but with a gleeful, malicious sparkle in his eyes, said, “It’s rumored that the production of daughters is down because certain things have trouble coming up.”

  Tilal, whose gaze had never left the dragons, called out softly, “My lord! I think they’ve seen us!”

  Rohan’s attention turned to the valley, where several females had raised their heads to stare up at the ridge. “We’d best be off, then. I wouldn’t want to disturb these ladies from their naps. But I’d like a look at the sires. Farid, do you think they might be up on the cliffs? It won’t be dark for some time yet.”

  Once out of sight of the she-dragons, they were able to pick up the pace without fear of attracting unwanted attention. The going was easier, too, as they followed an ancient riverbed down from the hillcrest and then went up another slope. They heard the dragons long before they reached the summit that overlooked a boulder-strewn gorge. On the far cliffs three massive sires were busy tearing up bittersweet by the roots. Occasionally one would roar at the others, and the echoes set off clattering rockslides.

  Tilal’s jaw had descended to his chest. “My lord, is it true you killed one of those?” he whispered.

  “Yes,” Rohan answered curtly, not wanting to remember. “Let’s go closer, Farid.” Slanting an amused glance at Feylin, he added,

  “I’ll hold you excused from joining us.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said fervently, wide and wary eyes on the three sires.

  Scrub grew along the summit, dry bushes barely green in which a few birds perched on their way elsewhere. The shadows were deepening as the sun slowly fell, but Rohan had no thought for the time. He wanted to see those dragons up close—strong, healthy, proud creatures, not corpses rotting in the sand.

  “Up there, my lord!” Tilal gasped, pointing to the sky.

  A dozen more dragons sailed through the air on powerful wings, the missing females in northward flight. They paid no attention to the sires who screamed to attract them. Coppery and black and green-brown, the she-dragons flew in their arrogant strength, and Rohan suddenly laughed aloud with the joy of their freedom. He gave in to impulse and pressed his stallion into a gallop. Farid called out a caution that he ignored. He urged Pashta to greater speed along the hills and they soared over the rocky ground, his golden robe billowing out behind him like wings. He, too, was a dragon in free flight.

  The way descended for half a measure, than banked steeply up. He could see the dragons above him and knew they would soon outdistance him and disappear into the mountains around Feruche—and damn Ianthe, who would probably send out her latest lover to slaughter a dragon for her whims. The wind swirled around him, blew Pashta’s mane back into his eyes, whipped at his face and half-bared chest. Leaping a huge boulder, for just an instant he felt the surge of muscle and wing that would take him skyward along with the dragons—

  A searing pain struck his right shoulder and he thought a rock had flown up from the stallion’s hooves. But something dragged at the wound. He groped around with his left hand, drawing rein with the right that was beginning to go slightly numb, and his fingers snagged at the hilt of a knife.

  A stand of thin, dry shrubs was ahead of him, and from it ran six men on foot, some with bows, others with swords. Pashta skidded on the loose stones, shrieking a battle challenge as his blood and training dictated, and reared up with hooves lashing out. Rohan hung on, grasping his sword with his left hand and one of his boot-knives with his right. The men came for him, one of them grabbing the stallion’s bridle as he came down; a powerful yank jerked the horse’s head around and the man lost a chunk of sleeve and flesh for his pains. But balance was lost. Even as Rohan hacked through upraised arms and stabbed into chests, Pashta foundered and Rohan toppled to the ground.

  His vision exploded in black rainbows as a hand pulled at the knife in his shoulder, tearing down through muscle. His sword was wrested from his grip. He tried to roll away, but the man still had a grip on the blade and twisted it once again. Instinct alone drove his elbow back into the man’s belly. Momentarily freed, he wrenched the knife from his flesh. The pain sent him reeling.

  He heard Farid’s shout of his name, Tilal’s frantic call. He spun, crying out an order for them to leave him. He could see nothing, feel nothing but the incredible fire in his shoulder and a new stabbing pain along his thigh. He fumbled at it, and the pain of removing the arrow somehow cleared his vision. A half-sensed movement made him turn and thrust with the knife that still had his blood on it. But his eyes betrayed him then, gaze flickering down at the arrow’s fletching, expecting to confirm suspicion by the sight of Merida colors. The glance was an unforgivable mistake, for it left him open to the blow that felled him. As he crumpled into the dirt, the colors that chased him into unconsciousness were not Merida brown and green, but violet edged in gold. Roelstra’s colors—and Ianthe’s.

  Feylin watched shadows fill the valley like an onrushing tide, indigo and deep brown and a strange greenish black. On the cliffs the dragonsires seemed to have melted into the stone. She shook her head, asking herself why men were so stupidly reckless. Dragons were marvels to behold—but at a nice, safe distance. Prince Rohan, Lord Farid, and the young squire ought to have returned by now from their foolish dragon-chasing, and she said as much to the man beside her.

  Darfir shrugged and cast an uneasy look across the gorge to the invisible dragons. “His lordship knows his way home.”

  Though his words were casual enough, his hands constantly slid up and down the reins and his eyes constantly scanned the trail. Feylin bit her lip. “We’ll wait for them,” she said, and peered into the dying light.

  A short time later Darfir gave a muffled curse and pointed to the cliffs. A great winged shadow appeared against the dusky sky and launched itself into flight. Feylin’s blood congealed as the dragon bellowed a hunting-cry familiar to her from childhood.

  “Sweet Goddess,” Darfir whispered. “Is he coming after us?”

  “No,” another of the men said. “Look.”

  The dragon swooped into the gorge and was swallowed in darkness. A horse’s thin scream rose and abruptly died. Moments later the sire lifted into the sky once more, flying to a remote perch with a large, limp shape dangling from his talons. Even at a distance, the piebald hide showed that this was the squire’s mount.

  “Oh, no,” Feylin breathed, and in the next instant dug her heels into her horse’s flanks. The others followed her, the arrhythmic pattern of hoofbeats in perfect keeping with the uncertain pounding of her heart.

  Suddenly she drew rein, for ahead of her trotted Lord Farid’s dappled gelding, heading home. Darfir rode forward and grabbed the horse’s reins. A quick inspection showed the nicks in his hide and blood on the reins where Farid’s hand would have held them.

  “He knows his way home, unlike the one the dragon caught,” Darfir said grimly. “As for the prince’s stallion—he could be anywhere by now.”

  “They didn’t fall from their horses,” Feylin said softly.

  The oldest of the men, Lhoys, growled through his beard, “Whatever lost them their mounts walked on two legs and drew steel against them.”

  “Or glass,” Feylin added. “And they won’t have waited around, either. Can you find the tracks, Lhoys?”

  The old man nodded and dismounted to scrutinize the ground. “Bring the gelding. We may have need of him.”

  Feylin glanced at Darfir. “What do you think happened?”

  “How could the Merida have come so far south without our knowing?”

  “They wouldn’t dare.” But
it was a feeble protest.

  Lhoys had gone some distance from them, and now turned to call out success. After half a measure they found the place where the squire’s horse had turned into the gorge, prints indicating a panicky gallop. They rode on in silence as the light worsened and every shape became a threat. At last Feylin stopped, seeing a stand of brush and a dark shape on the ground. She cried out and leaped down from her saddle.

  Farid sprawled in a dirt-thickened puddle of his own blood, a gaping wound in his side, sword still in his hand, the blade dark with blood. Death had not gentled his face, and as she crouched beside him she almost expected him to sit up and bellow out his rage before slashing into his attackers again. Smoothing his features tenderly, she closed his sightless eyes and bent her head.

  “Look here,” Lhoys called out, and she glanced up, tears blurring her eyes. The old man was a few strides away, pointing at the ground. “There’s blood all over. Our lord and his grace gave good accounts of themselves. Signs of bodies being dragged—see the marks of bootheels in the dirt? Three men were unable to walk by the time this was over.”

  “Or two of them and Prince Rohan,” Feylin said, shivering.

  “Did he wear spurs? These three did.”

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

  “Trained by his father and mounted by Lord Chaynal on a horse like that? No spur ever touched that stallion—nor any other Prince Rohan ever rode.”

  She knuckled her eyes and said, “Darfir, put our lord on his horse. We’ll take him back home.”

  “We follow the tracks as far as we can,” Lhoys growled.

  “There’s no more light,” Darfir protested.

  Lhoys cursed and spat, and set off anyway. Feylin caught up with him. “What if we find them? Four of us against however many of them? And with a sword at the prince’s throat? And what about the boy?”

  “Small enough to carry, of course. I thought you were careful about observing things.”

  “And I thought you were a goldsmith.”