Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince

by Melanie Rawn

  A stern glance from Ostvel silenced the boy, and he trudged out of the room. His father shut the door, and when she was alone with Tilal, Sioned took sorrowful inventory again of her nephew’s face. He bore the marks of bad treatment, exhaustion, and worries far too heavy for a child of his years.

  “I saw your father in the south,” Sioned began. “The High Prince is encamped with young Prince Jastri of Syr. They say it’s for training purposes, but your father is wise and knew it’s really for war against the Desert. He came to Lord Baisal’s holding to warn us and join us.”

  The green eyes went wide. “But—what about Mother and everyone at home?”

  “No one has ever succeeded in taking the keep, Tilal. Besides, River Run is far from where the fighting will be.”

  He thought this over and nodded. “Lord Chaynal will lead, and my father will help. But what about Prince Rohan? She has him!”

  “Not for long,” Sioned told him grimly. “This map is precisely what I need, Tilal. You’ve done very well.’

  “When do we leave for Feruche?”

  “We do not.” She instantly regretted the sharp answer as he drew himself up indignantly at the perceived slur on his manhood. “Tilal, you must trust me and obey me in this. Please promise me.”

  Rebellion flickered in his eyes, but after a moment he nodded and bent his head. “Yes, my lady,” he whispered. “But hurry. She’ll kill him.”

  “No. If she had wanted his death, the Merida would have killed him when you were captured.”

  The boy looked up with renewed hope; this logic had not occurred to him before. “That’s true! And they were careful on the journey to keep him alive, even if he was tied up and unconscious.”

  She hid a wince at the image this brought to mind, and said, “Tomorrow I want you to present yourself to Maeta and tell her that I bade you to be her squire and do everything she tells you.”

  “I will. But what’s going to happen?”

  “She’ll explain. She has a very interesting plan for repaying the Merida for those bruises you wear and for their complicity in Princess Ianthe’s plan. Be sure to tell Maeta that I also designate you Walvis’ deputy when it comes to all things regarding Remagev.”

  Tilal frowned, trying to work it out, then sat up straighter and smiled. “You’re going to give him the keep, aren’t you? That’s why you want to take special care of it!”

  “Yes, and you’ll be partly responsible for making sure it gets through this in decent shape. So when you’re there, be sure to see everything you can and stay to supervise things, for it’s your sharp eyes that will give the best warning of any Merida mischief.” There, she thought, she had soothed the boy’s pride, given him something useful to do, and made sure he would stay safe in Remagev, forbidden to join the battle. “Tilal, I’d like to talk further, but it was a long ride from Faolain Lowland.”

  “You ought to sleep,” he said, and stood up, every bit the young nobleman worried for his liege lady’s comfort. But a breath later he came to put his arms around her and be held for a moment, a little boy again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered miserably. “I should have helped him more, and I didn’t—”

  “You did all you could. And you gave me the information I need to get him back.” Sioned stroked his hair. “Would I have entrusted Walvis’ future holding to a coward—or a fool?”

  Tilal recovered himself and stepped back. “I won’t fail you, my lady. Good night.”

  Alone once more, Sioned went to the two chairs placed before the garden windows and sank wearily into one of them. There was an emptiness beside her in Rohan’s usual chair that matched the void within her. They had spent so much time here, planning their dreams into reality. Ianthe would not kill him, but there were other deaths besides those of the body.

  Sioned waited while the moons rose and spread their cool light across her face and hands. She gathered the strands together, knowing she could go anywhere, see anything, speak to any faradhi she chose. But there was one she would not touch on the moonlight, for if Andrade had any notion of her plans, she would forbid them on pain of being cast out forever. While Sioned would risk anything for her husband, she still had need of other faradh’im.

  Skillfully knotting the moonlight into a secure pathway, she flung it northward, past the great basin of Skybowl gleaming in the moonlight. She cast further until she saw the proud towers of Feruche. The garrison below was dark and deserted, but the castle windows shone with light.

  Both approaches were indeed closely guarded. There were no weaknesses. She should have known better than to hope arrogance had made Ianthe careless. She had thought to use her skills to slide into this place somehow, divert guards and servants with the Fire and Air she could summon, frighten them into mistakes that would leave her free to enter unnoticed. But as she counted people and observed their actions, she knew that such subterfuge was impossible.

  Which window? she wondered, hovering within the moonlight. Or was there any window at all where Rohan slept? Was he high in a tower, or down in a stone cell without light? Anger surged up and her control wavered, and she took some moments to steady herself.

  She peeked into rooms at random, noting which held sleeping servants, which were empty, making mental adjustments to her memory of Tilal’s map. She could only go as far as the moonlight reached into each chamber, but that was enough. One room contained three ornate beds, each occupied by a sleeping child. Ianthe’s sons, Sioned thought, and just like her, for even in sleep the faces were willful and sly. How Roelstra must treasure them; thwarted of sons of his body, he had grandsons now that Ianthe would train up in his image.

  She searched all the windows facing the moonlight, more and more afraid that Rohan was indeed in some belowstairs cell or a room on the other side of the towers where she could not go. But at last she found him. Rohan! she cried. But no one heard.

  His sleeping face had been ravaged by pain and fever that had left deep bruises around his closed eyes. The fine, strong bones of brow and cheeks and chin were too sharp, his mouth a line of tense exhaustion. A dark silk sheet was pushed down around his waist and as he turned restlessly onto his side she saw the dressing wrapped to the wound in his shoulder. Moisture shone dully on his skin, blond hair dark with sweat. He was out of reach of the moonlight that pooled on the carpet beside the bed but did not touch his body or face. If it had, she might have touched him, that part of him that held some trace of the faradhi gift. But she could not.

  Someone moved into the light, a curving shape, nakedness half-hidden by a cascade of dark hair reaching to her hips. Sioned trembled, felt her rings bite into her clenched fingers back where her body sat in Stronghold. Ianthe slowly insinuated herself beneath the sheet, sliding close to Rohan’s body. She placed one hand on either side of him, shook her hair down so it covered his bare chest and belly, then lowered her head to his.

  “No!”

  The raw howl of her own voice snapped Sioned too abruptly back into her body. Colors whirled around her, confused, chaotic, refusing to form their familiar pattern. Her rings spat emerald and sapphire and amber and onyx fire into her aching eyes, became burning circles that ignited her flesh to the bone. The great emerald pulsed as if it would fill to bursting with light. It swelled and became the only thing she saw, plunging her into its glittering green depths as she sobbed aloud in terror.

  Yet in the brilliant stone she saw again herself, burned by her own Fire, holding a newborn boy-child with Rohan’s golden hair.

  Rohan’s son. And Ianthe’s.

  A long time later, when she remembered who and what she was again, she lifted her hands. There were no charred circles of skin beneath her rings. Cool silver and gold they clasped her fingers, mocking her. Sunrunner enough to watch, but not to prevent by any arts what Ianthe was about to do.

  Sioned covered her face with her hands and wept.

  Coaxing, knowing fingers brought him to life. He could barely see her, backlit as she was by the moons, but he felt
the familiar sweetness of her in his arms, the silk of her skin and hair.

  “Sioned,” he breathed against her mouth.

  “Love me! Rohan, love me—now!”

  Fire blazed up between them. Her thighs parted and her breasts strained up against him, and he lost himself in the taste and scent and warmth of her, startled by her desperate urgency. But there would be time later to caress her, renew the magical joining he had known only with her and wanted only with her. Filling her body, filling himself with his need of her, filling the night with the singing soaring dragonflight of loving her.

  “Yes—oh, yes—now!” she cried out, arching powerfully—and it made no difference to him that the flesh beneath his hands was too full, breasts too heavy, waist too thick and hips too sleek. He sought blindly between her soft thighs, drank from a mouth that tried to suck the life from him. Her thick perfumed hair was a living thing that twisted around him, chaining him to her. He wrenched his head away and cried out Sioned’s name in agony.

  “No, little prince,” Ianthe laughed, gleeful, breathless, wrapped around him like a snake. “You know who I am and what I want—what you want! Give it to me! Give me your son!”

  Even as his flesh withered away from her, he felt it happening, knew she had won. She let him go. He staggered to his feet, clutching the bedpost, flung back the hangings on their metal rings—tapestries of dragons in all their violence and lust.

  Ianthe moved languidly on the bed. Her legs were spread wide, her head thrown back, but her arms cradled her breasts as if a child already nursed there. The eagerness of her fertility would welcome the mindless gift of his—meeting, matching, fusing together inside her belly, creating a life that would be partly his and partly Ianthe’s. He understood now why time had been so important to her, why she needed him “capable.”

  Long lashes lifted from eyes the color of dead leaves. “Sometimes it takes only once,” she purred. “But I won’t risk that. Come here to me, princeling. Be sure we’ve made a son.”

  A son. “I’ll kill you,” he whispered.

  “No, I don’t think so.” She laughed up at him. “Come, Rohan. You’ve already betrayed her. What would once more matter? I make sons, and she can’t even carry a child!”

  Thighs splayed for him, arms held out, triumphant laughter. Something hideous lurched inside him, feeding on his hate, capable of killing. Ianthe laughed again as he dug his fingers into her throat. She writhed beneath him, hands grasping, guiding, greedy. Rage snarled through him and he loomed over her, tightening his grip. He drove himself into her in mindless fury, lifted one hand to strike her, laughing madly at the blood that streamed from her lip. She screamed then, a sound hoarse and frightened and shrill with lust. And he laughed again.

  “You wanted me, Ianthe? Let’s see how much you want this!” He wallowed in her, spent himself in a vengeance that was her victory over him. He knew it, could not stop himself. He let it go on and on, setting the marks of his hate onto her flesh. When he was finished he fell to one side, nauseated by his own body, hating himself for not having the strength to kill her where she lay. But she had said something that made killing her impossible. She had spoken of a son.

  It was a long time before she roused, bruised and bloodied, and slid out of bed. Rohan saw her fingers spread over the curve of her belly. She smiled down at him, raking her tangled hair back from her face, and licked the blood from her lips.

  “My father makes only girls,” she said scornfully, her voice rough and throaty. “Your Sunrunner witch can’t even make those. Oh, she’ll get you back, Rohan, safe and sound—I need you alive to confirm that this child is yours.” She laughed again, enjoying his flinch. “You wanted me—all these years, ever since that night I came to you at the Rialla, you’ve wanted me. Don’t bother denying it. We both know it’s true. But you Chose Sioned. Tell me Rohan—could you touch her, after being with me?”

  “No,” he whispered, though not in the manner she heard it. He could never touch Sioned again, not having befouled himself with Ianthe. He could still feel her on his skin, feel himself in her flesh.

  The door locked heavily behind her. She had won—for now. When she returned, he would kill her. He must.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Most of the winter had seen Goddess Keep washed by torrential rains. Unpredictable cloud cover made faradhi communication sporadic at best. Andrade, irked at having to rely on more conventional means of learning the news, subjected visitors to questioning so intense they came away terrified. With the coming of spring, thick fog walled up the keep and the Sunrunners grew as restless as hawks denied flight. Thoroughly sick of reading, chess, lessons, cleaning, and each other’s company, they were united in avoiding Andrade with what amounted to religious devotion.

  But at last the fog lifted and the sun shone, and the castle emptied of nearly every living creature—including the denizens of field and forest who had wintered in the castle and now went home. Faradh’im and apprentices and the keep’s ordinary folk roamed the hillsides, half-drunk on sunlight. Andrade, watching from the battlements, waited until they were all out of sight in the woods or along cliff paths before she undid her silver-gold braids and ran her fingers back through her hair, luxuriating in the warmth of spring sunshine. Her last walk here, some days ago, had been a depressing affair; the castle had been wrapped in the fog that was the Storm God’s last little joke after a long and unamusing winter. But now the Goddess had reclaimed the sky for her own.

  Replaiting her hair, she grimaced at the streaks of white in it, swearing to herself that they had been caused by Roelstra’s impossible daughters. The impulse that had made her claim them six years ago was one she regretted daily.

  Pandsala at twenty-three had been, for all her royal upbringing, abysmally ignorant. She had a certain cleverness that kept her from complete mental stagnation, but her formal learning was almost nil. She had not appreciated being sent to the schoolroom with the younger students, but the tactic had the double benefit of pounding a basic education into her skull while curing her of some of her more objectionable arrogances.

  Pandsala at twenty-nine was a vast improvement. Discouraged in her attempts to dramatize her chosen role of captive princess, she had abandoned the effort and was now almost tolerable. But it was the shocking discovery of her potential as a Sunrunner that had supplied a needed sense of self-worth. Last summer she had earned her third ring.

  Chiana was a different problem entirely. Adopted by the women at the keep, pitied her sorry lot, spoiled by almost everyone, she was quick of body, mind, and spirit. No one knew what she would get into next. To Roelstra’s fine aristocratic features and Palila’s wealth of auburn hair Chiana added her own winsome charm and a pair of green-brown eyes that could brim with slyness or tears at a moment’s notice. Andrade and Urival kept close watch on her, suspecting that her beguiling ways could turn to low cunning if she was not carefully guided.

  Pandsala provided discipline. Seeing her sister as the cause of her own exile, she remained uncharmed and unbeguiled. Oddly enough, Chiana behaved, wishing for her elder sister’s good opinion, and a bond of sorts had grown between the two. This winter Pandsala had busied herself with teaching Chiana to read, and seemed more content with her lot.

  Andrade wondered how long she would have to keep the pair with her. Despite the circumstances of her birth, Chiana would eventually be sought in marriage, and when Roelstra finally obliged everyone by dying, Pandsala would be free to do as she liked.

  Thought of the High Prince reminded Andrade of why she had come up here today—not to breathe in the spring but to take a look at what was going on around her. She shook back her loosened hair and closed her eyes, the instinctive mental loom absorbing her thoughts, and she sighed with the pleasure of the weaving denied her every winter. Across the green downs of Ossetia she roamed, eastward to Gilad where flooded manors were being repaired; a glance for the Catha Hills where herds were being coaxed to rich grazing on the coast; an approving
nod for the white sails of Lleyn’s ships plying regular trade routes again now that the danger of storm was gone. All was fine and fair in the south, and Andrade smiled her satisfaction.

  For the sheer pleasure of it she followed the bright ribboning rivers to the north, sensing the sunlight cool as it danced across the water. Up to the lower hills of the Great Veresch Mountains she flew, pausing to admire the snow-capped peaks. Pleasure faded as she looked down at Castle Crag, and annoyance set in, quickly superceded by curiosity at the quiet of the place. Was Roelstra on progress somewhere? Off to one of his hunting lodges? She could see only a few daughters arranged languidly around the gardens, only a few servants, and barely enough troops to secure the gatehouse.

  Andrade sped across the mountains, dazzled by the brilliance of white snow beneath her, then flung her skeins westward to Fessenden. A hard winter for them, too, she saw; snow still heavy on the ground, fishing boats huddled in the harbors, the port city of Einar shivering in the chill sunlight. She would gather reports soon from the Sunrunner assigned to the court there, and find out what help Lord Kuteyn’s widow needed to replenish her winter-ravaged lands.

  A quick glance over Kierst-Isel heartened her; garrisons along the borders were at ease this spring where they normally bristled for the usual skirmishes. Memory of Rohan’s proposal of legally set boundaries made her smile; perhaps Volog and Saumer had at long last decided who owned what. A leap across the wide bay between the island and the mainland, and she was over a Meadowlord soggy with spring runoff. As often as she wondered why the ancient faradh’im had built Goddess Keep on this fog-bound coast, she gave thanks that they had not chosen the marshy lowland with their muggy summers and never-ending supply of insects.

  Farther, to Syr that lay between rivers, rich land and fertile, the soil dark with new turning and planting—and a nostalgic glance at her own childhood home of Catha Freehold that had never belonged to any but her own family who had never bent the knee to any prince. On her father’s death it had reverted to Syr, for she had given up all claim to it and it was too far from the Desert for Zehava to rule effectively. The plain stone tower rose proud and white in a hollow between low hills, within sighting distance—for a faradhi on the wing—of Sioned’s family’s River Run. She paused to survey the huge holding, and frowned as she discovered that it, too, was nearly empty.