Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince

by Melanie Rawn

  “Please consider, my Lady,” he replied in formal tones that spoke his misgivings more clearly than if he had cried out a hundred reasons against her decision.

  “I am within my rights. Roelstra has shut the faradh’im away from all light. For this alone he deserves what we’ll do to him.”

  “His death?” Urival asked.

  “We are not murderers.”

  “Nor executioners?” he pressed.

  “No,” Andrade said, and for the first time in her life regretted the ten rings on her fingers, the bracelets and chains linking them and her to ancient vows. “No,” she repeated. “Never.”

  Sioned had grown used to the dark. Not a thread of light was permitted, not even a candle. She had no way of knowing how much time had passed, how many days and nights and days again. Meals came at irregular intervals—as did men who were a darkness she could taste and smell as well as feel.

  She had been unable to test out Maeta’s information about the hidden entry to Feruche; though she had anticipated most of the guards and the time they changed duty, one had caught her just the same. Her own fault, she knew, for being careless in her urgency. And now she was here in this black cell, alone.

  It was the lack of colors that disturbed her most. A Sunrunner shut away from the light was an unnatural thing, yet panic had not lasted long. The suffocating heat did not trouble her after what must have been a day or so. But she missed the colors. She spent her time tracing the shape of each one in memory: not the faces and landscapes and sky they formed, but wanting only to feel them, wrap them around her in the blackness. They were life to her, the gorgeous spectrum that made up the world she touched as a faradhi. But without light, she could not feel them. They had no substance.

  She did not waste her energy by conjuring Fire very often. It hurt her eyes, and the colors of flame raged with her inner turmoil, her fear. And what was the use, in any case? She knew she would not be here forever.

  A squeal of hinges alerted her a few moments before a torch spewed red-gold into her cell. She covered her face and turned away to spare her eyes that teared and stung with the pain of light.

  “Goddess blessing, Sunrunner,” Ianthe greeted mockingly.

  Sioned took her hands from her cheeks and slitted her eyes open, wiped away tears. But she was not yet equal to meeting Ianthe’s gaze.

  “Here,” Ianthe went on, “cover yourself. You’re looking rather awful, my dear. Like Rohan—too afraid of the dranath to eat much. It shows, princess.” She laughed. Sioned held herself from a flinch as clothes were flung at her.

  She could open her eyes now without too much pain, and after brushing away the last of the tears she faced the princess. Ianthe’s smile sickened her.

  “You’d enjoy killing me, wouldn’t you, Sioned? Almost as much as Rohan would. But you’re both too cowardly to dare it here in my castle. Tell me, Sunrunner, do you love your life so much you’d willingly endure this? Or do you love life even more than you hate me?” She laughed again. “There’s a subtlety here that has escaped you, I think. Hate is everything. My father understands that, and so do I, thanks to you and Rohan. Yes, I really ought to express my gratitude! Hate is the only thing that endures. It’s kept you alive thus far, hasn’t it?”

  Ianthe took another step into the cell, firelight playing off her unbound hair, her jewels, her dark crimson gown. “But neither of you will risk your own lives to fulfill your hate for me and my father. Very practical of you, and very satisfying for me. There’s another life in question now. When a woman has borne three sons, she knows the signs of another in her body.”

  Sioned stared at the torch Ianthe held. She could do it—conjure the Fire higher and hotter, send it writhing down the princess’ body, do to her what Roelstra had done to his mistress—

  Ianthe cursed and threw the torch onto the stones. But Sioned had already doused the small flare her thoughts had given the flames. She would not kill Ianthe. Yet. There were no burns on her own flesh, no child in her arms.

  The light fluttered up in strange patterns of shadows that both burnished and blackened Ianthe’s face. “I knew seven days after my youngest son was conceived,” she said. “But I wanted to make especially sure this time. Perhaps you think I won’t be believed. Put your mind at rest, Sioned. There will be no doubt that this child is Rohan’s. With my father victorious on his battlefield and I on mine, who will dare to doubt? Rohan will live long enough to acknowledge his son—and I want you alive to hear him do it. After that. . . .” She shrugged. “You’re free to go now, and your princeling with you. Enjoy your life while you may, for it lasts only until midwinter when my son is born.”

  Sioned waited until the princess had turned to the door in a sweep of crimson, then said, “Enjoy your hate while you may, Ianthe, if hate is life to you. It ends when Rohan’s son is born.”

  The princess’ spine stiffened and for an instant she froze. Sioned smiled to herself. Then Ianthe was gone, the door wide open behind her.

  Sioned took her time, gathering her strength. Slowly she put on the riding clothes given her to cover her nakedness, then made her way from the torchlit dark along an empty corridor. There were many stairs, and several times she had to stop and lean against the wall while dizziness shook her. At last she emerged into a chamber washed with feeble dawn, where Rohan waited for her.

  The pale light spared nothing of the hollows gouged out around his ribs, the stark bones of his face. They had given him rags to wear, the proud dragon prince—trousers, boots, a cloak he held awkwardly over one arm. The blond hair was dark and lank with sweat, the eyes bruised, and in those eyes was a despair that tore at her soul.

  She knew what he must be seeing as he looked at her. The clothes hung from her shoulders, and the light would be equally merciless on her own gray skin, her features still drawn tight against screams she had refused to give. She saw him staring at her and hurt more for his hurt than for any of her own.

  “I was with her,” he said abruptly.

  “I know. And now she carries your son, as I cannot.”

  “I should have killed her.”

  “No.” But she could not explain, not yet.

  He came forward, placed the cloak around her shoulders, careful not to touch her. “We’re free to go.”

  “Rohan—you’re mine,” Sioned told him. “Mine.”

  He shook his head, moved away from her to the door.

  “She could never take you from me. The only one who could do that is you—and I will never give you up or let you go.”

  “I won’t let you claim soiled goods,” he rasped.

  “Is that why you won’t touch me?”

  He swung around, fresh agony crying out from his eyes. “Sioned—no—”

  She waited until her meaning was completely clear to him, calculating the balance of his love for her against his hatred of himself. “I lost track of how many used me,” she said at last, words chosen for their cruelty, words that were a terrible risk. But she knew this man—stricken, stripped of pride, whom she had just hurt again. The shock would either break him or bring him back to her.

  She knew him. He held her gently, as if she would shatter in his arms. Sioned rested her head on his shoulder and let the tears fall, cleansing her eyes, washing his skin.

  The courtyard outside was empty, but Sioned could feel hundreds of eyes in the shadows. There were two horses tied just inside the gates, a waterskin strapped to each saddle. Ianthe evidently meant them to survive the Desert. As Sioned and Rohan mounted and rode out of Feruche, neither missed and neither commented on the sight of Ianthe, high on the battlements, watching them.

  Rohan was as tense as if he expected an arrow in his back at any instant. Sioned knew there would not be. Midwinter, she repeated to herself. Midwinter. She had until then to decide the manner of Ianthe’s death.

  “Just a skirmish,” Prince Jastri begged. “The men are restless. They know we have the superior force and want to prove it! Just one small skirmish
—”

  Roelstra’s lips twisted and he pushed his breakfast away. There was no sense continuing the meal with Jastri nagging at him and destroying his appetite.

  “One small skirmish,” he mused. “Something Lord Chaynal will know very well how to turn into a major battle. Haven’t you listened to anything that’s said of him? He knows war, Jastri. He had a most competent teacher in Zehava, and plenty of experience with the Merida. There will be no skirmish. Not yet. Now, be a good boy and leave me to finish my breakfast in peace, won’t you?”

  Jastri, usually flushed with the delight of commanding his own troops in their drills, now flushed with rage. A handsome boy of sixteen winters, he had all the high spirits and impatience of youth released from the onerous supervision of tutors and advisers. But he had found that Roelstra’s rule was even more confining. The leather battle-armor decorated here and there with garnets fit him most attractively now that life in a soldier’s camp had run the baby fat from him, but he had not yet learned a soldier’s discipline. Roelstra, inspecting the scarlet cheeks and flashing gray-green eyes, considered it was time to teach a lesson.

  “I am a prince,” Jastri informed him hotly. “I am no man’s boy!”

  “You are and will remain a boy until you’ve blooded yourself with a virgin girl and a battle,” Roelstra snapped back.

  “And you’re the one to instruct me in both!” the young prince scoffed. “You, whose wife and five luckless mistresses have made no sons for you! You who sit here in this tent stuffing yourself on breakfast when we could be feeding our swords with Desert blood!”

  Roelstra sighed, comforting himself with the thought of how pleasant it was going to be to have this irritating child killed. He said, “When you have sons of your own and scars of battle on your skin, then you may gloat. Boy. But until that time, you will do as I say.”

  Jastri flung himself out of the tent, shouting furiously for his horse and escort. Roelstra ignored the commotion and attempted to interest himself in breakfast once again, but could not. He hoped Lord Chaynal was equally incapable of enjoying his meals, his sleep, and his every waking moment.

  Yet he smiled as he considered what must be going through the Desert commander’s mind. Roelstra’s troops outnumbered Chaynal’s, a weakness that could be exploited at any time—yet Roelstra did not attack. The excuse for battle had been handed to him by Lord Davvi, who was with the Desert armies rather than supporting his rightful overlord—yet Roelstra did not attack. The High Prince picked up his goblet and spoke to his reflection in its polished silver surface.

  “Do I wait for Lord Chaynal to attack first? No, I’m too clever to think he’d put himself in the wrong. Do I wait for Rohan to arrive so I can destroy him and his armies in a single battle? No, for I know the princeling will be surrounded by a wall of swords and shields. Then why do I wait on my side of the river like a sandstorm brewing in the Desert?”

  He chuckled and drank, conceding that if Jastri had a virtue, it was his ability to provide the finest of Syrene wines. Probably his only virtue, Roelstra added with a sigh as he heard a renewed commotion outside his tent. A squire slunk in and bowed, a convenient target for the High Prince’s temper.

  “Am I to have no peace at all? What is it now?”

  “Forgive me, your g-grace, I—”

  The tent flaps parted, to reveal a woman he had thought never to see again. She made a cursory obeisance, her dark eyes insolent and cool, and said, “Welcome me back, Father.” She held up her hands, and he saw the three Sunrunner’s rings on her fingers.

  Guards stood behind her, wary and uncertain. Roelstra waved them and the squire out of the tent. “Do you think my daughter is here to kill me? Get out, all of you! I’ll speak alone with the princess.”

  Pandsala seated herself without permission and folded her hands in her lap. “Thank you for my title, Father. With that and my rings, I should have no more trouble making these people obey me.”

  “Why should they obey you, and to what purpose?”

  She laughed. “Lord of Storms, what do you think these last six years have been like, walled up with Lady Andrade? Even if you’d turned me out—which you’re too smart to do, having seen these rings—and even if you’d had me killed, it’d be preferable to what I’ve endured.”

  He regarded her silently, allowing his suspicions to show on his face. At last, he said, “You’ve not aged well, my dear. Andrade and her pious household have not agreed with you any more than they would with me. I don’t trust you, Pandsala. But you don’t expect me to, I take it. What do you want?”

  “My freedom. And my position as your daughter, and a princess. I can be of use to you, Father, and you know it.” She smiled. “You’re showing your age, too, you know. White hairs here, more flesh there, lines and wrinkles. Are you still wasting your time and energy trying to beget a son, or have you decided Ianthe’s brats will make princes after you’re dead?” Laughing, she went on, “Princes! Goddess, that’s funny! They’ll rip your lands apart from one end to the other! Anything Ianthe gave birth and suck to would turn out vile.”

  “She and I have that in common,” Roelstra observed coldly. “I gave your little sister the name I should have given you—having betrayed first me, and now Andrade.”

  “You’re right, I don’t expect you to trust me. But I can be useful, Father. And you were never stupid.”

  They watched each other for some time—Roelstra calculating, Pandsala confident with the assurance of one who had nothing to lose.

  “Very well,” he said abruptly. “Serve me. But trust in one thing. If you betray me again, your years with Andrade will seem a carnival of delight compared to what will happen to you.”

  “How could I doubt it, Father?” She smiled again, stretched languidly. “May I share your breakfast? It was a longer trip than I thought from where I left Andrade and Urival and Chiana.”

  He gave a start and saw her satisfaction at his reaction. But before he could ask his questions, a guard burst into the tent, barely remembered to salute, and gasped out, “Your pardon, your grace—there’s a rider here who demands audience at once!”

  Roelstra half-rose to his feet, then sank back into his chair, slanting a look at his daughter. “Leave me. I’ll call for you again shortly.”

  She arched her brows, but left the tent without comment. Roelstra gestured and the rider was brought in. When the man had given his news, he summoned Pandsala again and met her outside in the sunlight.

  “I do intend to use you, my dear,” he told her. “And it seems I must trust you a little in order to do so. Show me now that you’re worth those rings you wear. Find Rohan.”

  “I’m an apprentice, not a fully trained faradhi!”

  He relished the apprehension in her eyes. “Then train yourself, and quickly. I want to know where Rohan is. Do it, Pandsala—or find out what happens when your father is angry.” He smiled, menace in his eyes.

  She swallowed hard, then faced the sunlight and closed her eyes. He watched her tremble and wondered why of all his daughters by Lallante this was the one with the gift. Then again, had it been Ianthe—

  Pandsala gasped and her eyes flew open. “I saw them! Rohan and the faradhi princess—and dragons, out in the Desert—I saw them!”

  Roelstra nodded, pleased that she had passed the test. “Excellent.”

  “But I don’t understand!” she cried. “Why did Ianthe let them go?”

  “For reasons of her own.”

  “You knew about this?”

  “The courier who just arrived told me.” He took her back into the tent and poured wine for them both. “The night before she released him, the signal fires were lit. All across the Veresch to Castle Crag, where a boat waited to sail down the Faolain more swiftly than a rider could go.”

  “But Lord Chaynal is upriver—”

  “Precisely. Horses were waiting. And now I know what Lord Chaynal does not.” He smiled, thinking that only he and Ianthe shared another interesting piece
of information, which would remain secret until the time was right. He, Ianthe—and Rohan.

  Pandsala took a swallow of wine—and suddenly turned white, staring into the cup in horror. Roelstra choked laughing.

  “Oh, that’s rich! What did you expect—dranath? Don’t be an idiot, Pandsala! When did I have the chance to drug the wine?” He took the cup from her and drank, mocking her.

  She calmed down, but the fear was still in her eyes. He enjoyed it, knowing she would not eat or drink without first having to overcome terror of the drug. The constant uncertainty would keep her honest, though he would never really trust her.

  “So we’ve each passed the first test,” he told her. I’ve restrained myself from binding you to me with dranath, and you’ve confirmed on the sunlight something I already knew.” He lifted his cup to her. “Shall we drink to mutual trust, my dear?”

  The noon sun beat down on Rohan’s unprotected head and back. He knew they had to stop soon and find shelter from the worst of the day’s heat. The morning had passed in absolute silence as they rode past the empty garrison below Ferache and out into the Desert, keeping close to the hills where they could find a little shade. He led the way, shamed by his gratitude that he did not have to look at his wife.

  Usually when he was confused or troubled, a ride through the stark beauty of his lands soothed him. Where others saw only arid emptiness, he saw freedom. The vast golden sands and endless sky reassured him that there were answers to be found if only he searched, the way one had to search for water in the Desert. There were no limits here, not to the land or to his dreams. A man could find liberty here to think, to feel, to live.

  The Desert threatened him now. The Long Sand was too great, the skies too huge, all of it looming around him, over him, alternating cries to preserve their freedom with shrieks that he was alone, alone, with no hope of answers. The dreams were gone like water into the sand. He could find no strength here and he had no right to seek strength in Sioned.

  Rohan turned the horse to the hills, eyes scouring them for cool shelter. He heard the soft shussh of hooves behind him, the muted jingle of the bridle as the horse tossed its head. He could not look around, could not look at his wife. He squinted up at the sky instead, where a dark shape had taken wing.