Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince

by Melanie Rawn

  Andrade at last submitted, withdrawing in response to Urival’s hand on her sleeve. The two faradh’im moved apart and dismounted. Urival walked to the other end of the line of Rohan’s soldiers. Both Sunrunners paused a moment before their lifted hands conjured two small spheres of Fire. Rohan’s people formed a loose arc on one side, Roelstra’s on the other. The faradh’im and the Fire hovered between to complete the circle and give the princes light to see by, light in which to kill each other. Andrade stood with head bowed and shoulders bent like an old woman’s; Tobin saw, and grieved, but knew that whatever the Lady had planned for Rohan and Roelstra, this was the only possible conclusion.

  They stalked each other warily, moving with elaborate care. All advantages of youth, strength, and swiftness that should have been Rohan’s were negated by the wound in his shoulder that would slow and weaken him the longer the fight went on. Roelstra was heavier of body and motion, and it had been a long time since he had used his warrior’s training. But that the muscles beneath his flesh were strong and that his instincts were intact became obvious with the first swing of his sword.

  Tobin did not hear the clang of blades, nor the grunt wrung from her brother’s throat as the impact shuddered up to his wounded shoulder. She did not hear whatever taunting words Roelstra flung into the space between them. But she could see—and there was a spark, a narrow gleam of steel far back among Roelstra’s people. They shifted. A pathway cleared. The starlight spun around Tobin and her colors seethed with panic, twining, merging with Sioned’s—and Urival’s, and Andrade’s—and someone else, someone trained but not perfected in the faradhi arts. Suddenly there was yet another, a tiny, raw gift that surged up in answer to Sioned’s need. Light and shadow skittered around Tobin, through her, and she lost her own colors to the greater whirl of power borne on Fire from the stars.

  Andrade was too stunned by the assault on her senses to begin defending herself until it was too late. Caught up in the threads of starlight, she saw in an instant the treachery of the upraised knife—and for the first time since the tenth ring had been placed on her finger she found herself subordinate to the powers of another Sunrunner.

  Chill silvery flames sprang up around the two princes, a circle of dangerous starlight that rose, met, created a shining dome that enclosed Rohan and Roelstra in shivering Fire. Colors flashed as each faradhi pattern was woven more deeply into the structure: her own colors, Urival’s, Tobin’s, Sioned’s—and those of two others whose presence shocked Andrade to her soul. Realizing too late that Sioned had trapped her, she fought panic and tried to gain control of the starlight. But this weaving was Sioned’s, and Andrade could do nothing but feel her strength given as Sioned demanded.

  Rohan drew back, dazzled by the cold Fire that arched up around him. Roelstra cursed frantically as a flare of diamond-bright light hit the dome with a sound like a great glass bell being rung, echoing deeply from curve to curve of the dome. Rohan took advantage of his enemy’s distraction and lunged in, sword ready to take Roelstra’s head. But the High Prince moved just in time, escaping with a only gash cut into his left arm.

  “So Andrade has closed us in,” he rasped. “That’s too bad—I wanted everyone to see you die.”

  Rohan wasted no breath on a reply. His shoulder had not warmed to the exercise as he had hoped; there was no battle fever to counter his weariness, and the anticipation that had burned along his veins during the ride was gone. He had spent too much of himself this long day, and his only hope was to finish Roelstra quickly—if he could.

  The High Prince laughed as if knowing Rohan’s thoughts. “Tired, princeling?” He drove in, without finesse but with a great deal of strength, and Rohan sidestepped out of his way.

  Steel clashed again and again, resounding off the star-spun dome until Rohan’s ears rang. Neither man indulged in elegant swordplay; each was after blood. Cold sweat ran into Rohan’s eyes, sheathed his body in ice. Lunge, parry, evade, thrust, dodge, lunge again. His right arm was fast becoming incapable of hefting the sword that was heavier each instant. He heard Roelstra’s harsh gasping breaths, smelled the sweat sheening the fleshy body, saw the welts leaking blood where his blade had cut the High Prince. But he would not have wagered right then on his own victory. For all Roelstra’s years and excesses, he seemed inexhaustible.

  Angling his sword as Roelstra brought his own back for a powerful thrust, he tried to cut the man’s legs from under him. The tip of his blade caught just behind the knee, and steel flawed in the day’s battle snagged in the High Prince’s soft leather boot. In the attempt to free himself, he drove the sharp tip into his flesh, growling with pain. Rohan wrenched the blade away and tried to follow up, but his arm chose that moment to falter. The sword slid from his hand. Balance lost, he fell hard to his knees, gasping at the impact.

  “Excellent position,” Roelstra taunted, “one you should have adopted long ago. I’ll teach it to your Sunrunner princess before I teach her to forget you in my bed—the way you forgot her in my daughter’s!”

  Rohan dove for his sword and forced his two hands to close around it, good hand locked over the strengthless one. Roelstra sliced almost contemptuously into his back as Rohan rolled away and came up on one knee. He barely felt the new rent in his skin, but for the trickle of blood that mingled with the renewed flow from his right shoulder. Roelstra gave a short burst of breathless laughter and closed in. Twisting around, Rohan caught the hilt of his sword against Roelstra’s, struggling to keep the blades locked even as the High Prince struggled to separate them. With a groan of agony as the effort tore his shoulder completely open, Rohan felt Roelstra finally give way. The suddenness of it flashed suspicion through his mind that it was deliberate—but the High Prince stumbled down onto the grass, cursing.

  Rohan gasped, each breath a stab of fire. It was beyond him to use the sword now, its weight insupportable. He went for his boot knife and heaved himself onto the sweating body. Powerful fingers closed over his wrist, wrenched his arm back, nearly tearing it from the socket. He realized that in another moment he would black out, and writhed from Roelstra’s grip.

  The High Prince grunted with pain as he heaved to his feet, swaying, blood dripping from his knee. Rohan went for the other knife and had his ribs kicked for his trouble. Body curling in anguish, breath sobbed in his throat and for the first time he was cold with the fear that he was going to die.

  Roelstra stood over him, panting. Sword retrieved, he leaned on it, the tip imbedded in the soil. The jeweled hilt shone in the silvery surrounding Fire.

  “I’ll teach your son to kneel,” Roelstra hissed.

  There was a sudden roaring in his ears, salt bitterness on his lips. Fury came to him at long last, a killing rage that had nothing to do with clean battle or even with vengeance. My son. The words echoed over and over in time to the vicious pounding rhythm of his blood: My son—

  “Kneel to me, princeling,” Roelstra demanded, his voice thick with hate. “Kneel!”

  Rohan moved very slowly. He pushed himself up, holding his ribs with his good hand, groped out with the other as though seeking support that would get him to his knees. My son. There was a burning in his flesh and something cold and dew-moist in his hand. One foot under him, leaning heavily on the other knee, he looked up through a stinging mist at the grandfather of his son.

  Roelstra was smiling. He continued to smile even as Rohan surged upward and shoved a knife he could barely hold into the soft flesh of Roelstra’s throat. The long blade stabbed through the underside of the chin and Rohan thrust it deeper, through tongue and mouth all the way to the base of the brain.

  The High Prince toppled to one side. Rohan watched him fall, knowing Roelstra was dead. And then the wet grass slicked with blood came up to meet him, and he knew nothing more.

  Only the frightened rasp of Chay’s voice made Andrade recall that she had an existence apart from the raging cold starfire that by now had bled all color into its pallor. She heard him, and painfully gathered
into coherence the splintered pattern that was herself. The others, less powerful than she, were still caught in the glowing dome. She labored with all her strength to separate them, to rebuild the shimmer of each distinctive mind.

  Urival was first, his deep sapphire and pale moonstone and shining amber forming once more into the familiar design. Truth, wisdom, protection against danger—all these things were Urival, and she wept with relief that he was whole. He helped her with the others, unraveling the chaotic weave that was comprised of Sioned and Tobin and the two startling, shocking others. The two princesses, known to them, were swiftly separated and reformed, cherished patterns not lost to shadows lurking in the night. The last pair—Andrade left the familiar one to Urival and explored the new and unexpected presence herself. Topaz for sharp intelligence; emerald for hope; iridescent pearl for purity; all lit by a diamond brightness that was beauty and cleverness. She knew who he was, this brilliant pattern of green and white and gold. The Sunrunner Prince. Rohan’s son.

  “Andrade!” Chay was almost sobbing now, and she opened her eyes to see his stricken face above her. She was vaguely curious about how she had come to be lying on the ground with her head cradled in his arm. When she moved, bruises told her of a hard fall. “Sweet merciful Goddess,” Chay whispered. “I thought you shadow-lost.”

  “No,” she said, and coughed. “It’d take more than this to kill me.” She pushed herself up. “Urival?”

  “Here,” came his voice from nearby, where Pandsala lay senseless on the grass. “Do you know what happened, and what she did?” he asked softly, his eyes sunk into hollows. “And why?”

  Andrade swallowed and nodded. “Yes. Is she—”

  “I don’t care about her or about what happened!” Chay snapped. “It’s Rohan who needs you, damn it!”

  He pulled her up and helped her to walk. They crossed the faint dark line where Fire had risen. No one had yet dared cross into the circle. Roelstra’s people, seeing that the unthinkable had occurred and their prince had fallen, were too stunned to attempt either revenge or escape. Rohan’s soldiers were equally silent and motionless. Andrade sank down beside the slight form curled in the starshine, light gleaming off his fair hair.

  He lived. Blood covered him like a cloak, but he lived. Andrade nodded at Chay, who lifted Rohan very gently and carried him to where Urival had made a small, warming fire. Rising to her feet, Andrade stood over Roelstra and gazed down into his dead eyes. Rohan’s knife was sunk into his throat and he wore a half-smile that chilled her. She bent stiffly and closed his eyes, but the feeling of insects crawling on her skin did not fade. For he smiled still; like her, he finally had what he wanted, though not quite in the manner planned.

  She ordered the corpse wrapped in its violet cloak, then went to tend her nephew’s wounds. She had no salves, no ointments, no soothing draughts but a skinful of wine taken from one of Rohan’s men. This she poured down his throat as Urival washed the blood away. Chay sent riders back to the main battlefield for supplies. They returned at top speed, led by the frantic Tilal and Maarken.

  It was a long while before she was satisfied that Rohan had taken no serious hurt. He had not opened his eyes, but the blank unconsciousness had become reassuring sleep, the signs unmistakable to Andrade’s trained eye. Two litters were prepared, one for the living prince and one for the dead one. Tilal remembered to reverse Roelstra’s banner on its pole to signal his death so that Rohan’s people would not think it was their own prince who had died.

  Andrade glanced up as Chay touched her arm and spoke her name. His face was rough with stubble, smeared with dirt and sweat, his gray eyes dull and bloodshot as he looked up at the sky. She was surprised to find the stars nearly gone, blackness becoming deep blue washed with rose-gold on the horizon.

  “Dragons,” he murmured.

  They flew in small groups, hatchlings chased through the air by watchful she-dragons and sires who called down warnings against any threats to their precious brood. Dark and graceful shapes against the misted dawn, they flew in search of a feeding ground unspoiled by the blood of humans. Andrade wanted to follow them on the new light, soar with them on wings of her own, and began to understand Rohan’s love for the dragons. For them there were no complexities of choice, motive, treachery, deceit; no battling against their own natures. She looked down at his sleeping face, smoothed back lank fair hair.

  “I wish you could see them,” she whispered. “They belong to you, Dragon Prince.”

  “To the Desert,” Chay corrected quietly. “Just like he does. Not the other way around, Andrade.”

  “I envy him—and them,” she murmured. “I’ve never owned anything but my rings and my pride. And nothing’s ever owned me.”

  “To claim anything you have to be willing to be claimed in return. That has to come first, Andrade. You have to give yourself, first.” He paused, knelt beside Rohan, touched his shoulder “We’re lucky that Rohan’s known that all along.”

  “I gave him Sioned, didn’t I?”

  “Do you think she was yours to give?” Urival asked softly.

  Andrade stiffened. Rising to her feet, she gestured for Rohan to be placed on the litter, and turned away from the others. Nothing but her rings and her pride—but they were all she had, and she would defend herself with them as long as she lived.

  A dragon roared in the dawn, and she looked up again, wondering suddenly what it would be like to be both possessed and free.

  Tobin opened her eyes.

  Ostvel was clasping the shivering, crying infant to his chest. Pol’s eyes were fixed on Sioned, the misty newborn blue gone in the flashing Fire. Tiny hands reached out, fists clenched exactly as Sioned’s were clenched. She was on her knees, white cloak blowing back from her shoulders like dragon wings, arms outstretched and features strained into terrifying intensity. The stars had found focus in her eyes, seemed to flow into the very bones of her slender body as a cold silvery brilliance writhed around her, a white Fire from the stars striking rainbows from her whiteness. Tobin knew what Sioned had done, how she had woven every thread of light from the sky into the patterns of power that were her framework: Urival, Andrade, Tobin herself—and the child.

  Ostvel glanced up. “He started screaming. I couldn’t quiet him.” Tobin nodded. There would be no protecting the child from his heritage. Sunrunner and Prince.

  All at once Sioned trembled as if her bones would shatter. The infant’s cries softened to whimpers and then he was silent, his small face relaxing at last into serenity. It was a long time before Sioned’s features showed any hint of the same peace.

  “The one with the knife—you could have killed him,” Tobin whispered hoarsely.

  Sioned nodded, and in her eyes were lingering traces of stars and power. “You understand about Pandsala now, don’t you? She and I have the same regret—that Roelstra never knew she was betraying him all along.”

  Sensing Ostvel’s bewilderment, Tobin turned to him and said slowly, “There was—combat between Rohan and Roelstra. One of the High Prince’s men thought to end it with a knife. Sioned—she used the stars, Ostvel. There wasn’t any other light.”

  Sioned touched Pol’s cheek. “There’s Fire in the stars,” she murmured. “Sunrunner’s Fire.”

  Ostvel held Pol closer. “He felt it. All of it, Sioned. You know what that makes him.”

  She nodded again, bright head bending low. “It begins too young for him. I hope one day he can forgive me.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Dragon gold.

  It bought the labors of a hundred master crafters, and by the beginning of spring the Great Hall of Stronghold was splendid with the results. The artisans would have worked for nothing, of course; the honor of boasting that they had had a hand in the making was worth more than any payment. But Rohan paid. Gold was simple coin and cost him very little, though only a few privileged people knew that. He stood surveying his stage, knowing it was exactly that, and nodded his satisfaction.

  T
hree hundred lamps shaded by sparkling Fironese crystal were set high along the walls where torches had once been. Tiles made in Kierst formed a pattern of blue and green on the floor. A new suite of fruitwood banqueting tables and chairs from Syr were laden with a fabulous dinner service of Gribain porcelain and utensils of Fessenden silver. Flowers were arranged in low vases of blue Ossetian glass; on either side of each was a wine pitcher made from the giant seashells found off the coast of Isel. Dorval’s silk provided the green napery folded into fanciful shapes atop the plates; pinewood boxes from Cunaxa held spices; fingerbowls of black deerhorn from Meadowlord and white elkhoof from Princemarch waited for noble hands that would be dried on small soft towels of blue Giladan wool. Beside each princely goblet was a delicate little cup, the only obvious use of the dragon gold that had bought all the rest.

  The banners of Desert athr’im had been removed to the foyer, replaced by a single tapestry behind the high table: the new dragon symbol. Stylized into simple, elegant lines, the bold arch of outspread wings balanced the proud lift of the beast’s head. Gold on blue, the dragon was crowned with a thin circlet and held a small ring surmounted by a real emerald set into the cloth. Zehava would have approved the grand gesture—and the warning.

  Rohan finished his inspection of the Great Hall and complimented his household staff, then walked between the empty tables to the side aisle where Maeta stood in full battle harness over a new blue silk tunic, her black eyes snapping with pride.

  Rohan gave her a smile. “Stand easy. You’re making me nervous!”

  She snorted. “You made me responsible for his safety, and here I stay.” She nodded at Sioned, who sat at the high table with Pol in her lap.

  “Did you hear that old fool Chale say that Pol has Sioned’s eyes?”

  “And your manners,” Sioned called out as the baby gave a loud burp. “Let’s get this started, Rohan. He’s quiet for now, but there’s no telling how long it will last. I don’t want him shrieking at the guests who’ve come to admire him.”