by Melanie Rawn
“And you,” he added. She wore a green gown dark as a mountain forest. The emeralds were around her throat and a thin silver circlet crossed her brow to hold back her loosened hair. He mounted the dais to stand beside and just behind her, fingers resting on the ornate carving of a dragon in flight that decorated the back of her chair, knowing very well what picture they would present. He wore a dark blue tunic and trousers, a topaz winking deep gold from a chain around his throat, a band of plain silver around his head. Pol’s clothes were green to match his mother’s gown, and the blanket around him was blue stitched with tiny golden dragons. A more perfect portrait of regal domesticity could not be imagined—precisely what Rohan had intended.
He signaled to Ostvel and the main doors were opened. The chaos outside in the foyer abruptly hushed as the chief steward of Stronghold announced Her Royal Highness the Princess Tobin and Lord Chaynal of Radzyn Keep. Tobin still favored her injured leg a little, but not in public. She and Chay, dressed in his red and white accented by rubies and diamonds, crossed the shining glazed tiles, made their bows, and joined Rohan and Sioned at the high table.
Next came Rohan’s vassals: Eltanin of Tiglath; Abidias of Tuath Castle, who guarded the far northern border of the Desert; old Hadaan of Remagev; and Baisal of Faolain Lowland. Less senior vassals followed, bowed, made new vows to the heir, and went to stand behind their chairs at various points throughout the great Hall—a strategic placement of approving voices worked out in advance by Rohan, Ostvel, and Sioned. Walvis was the last of the Desert highborns to enter, tall and handsome with his blue eyes sparkling above a neatly trimmed black beard. He took his place at the head of the knights’ table. Rohan caught his eye and smiled.
The princes were next, with the exception of Miyon of Cunaxa. Sixteen winters old and forbidden to make a move on his own, he had sent word that he was too ill to make the long journey from Castle Pine. It had been decided to take no offense, as his presence was unnecessary in any case. There were princes enough to make this convocation valid.
Lleyn of Dorval came in first, and winked at Rohan. He placed a lingering kiss on Sioned’s wrist and tickled Pol’s chin until the infant crowed with laughter, then went to his place near the high table. Pimantal of Fessenden entered to express his gratitude that his city of Einar was safe—for no one doubted that had the late High Prince succeeded in Syr, Fessenden would have been next on his list. Saumer of Isel, Roelstra’s erstwhile ally, came in wary and defiant, but polite. He was followed by his enemy, Volog of Kierst, looking smug as he greeted Sioned as her kinsman. Prince Ajit, who showed no ill effects from the long journey to Stronghold from Firon at his advanced age, said pretty things to Sioned and agreed with Chale that the baby had her eyes.
Clutha of Meadowlord was tight-lipped and contrite, having already given Rohan many speeches of apology for not keeping a closer watch on Lyell of Waes—whom he had in tow and who looked sick with apprehension. A poke in the ribs was sufficient to launch the young man into a babbled speech to which Rohan listened without any expression at all. He nodded briefly in dismissal, wanting Lyell to sweat a little longer.
Chale of Ossetia walked in, radiating innocence regarding Lyell’s work. Then came the younger princes who, like Miyon, had lost their sires in the Plague but, unlike him, controlled their own governments. Cabar of Gilad and Velden of Grib were much the same age, and much on their dignity at this first meeting of princes since they had gained their lands. Yet they were still boys enough to respond with blushes when Sioned bestowed on each her most dazzling smile.
At last Davvi came in, accompanied by his wife. Wisla was gaudy and overjeweled in Syrene turquoise and garnets, with a huge diamond nestled in her ample cleavage. She beamed at all as if she were princess of Stronghold as well as of Syr.
Then it was the turn of Roelstra’s daughters. There were twelve left now; five had died of the Plague, and the circumstances of Ianthe’s death in the fire that had destroyed Feruche were still the subject of intense speculation. Pandsala led her sister and half-sisters up to the high table, and not one of them knew that the boy to whom they bowed was their sister Ianthe’s son.
As they rose, Sioned spoke clearly into the quiet. “A moment, my ladies, if you would be so kind.”
They all froze, clumped together, eyes wide with fear or startlement or both. All except for Chiana and Pandsala. The former glared defiantly at Rohan; the latter stared at the floor.
“You have behaved with honor, and that is the truest mark of nobility—caring first for the peace and well-being of your land. By renouncing all claim for yourselves and your descendants to the properties, titles, and wealth to which you were born, you have acted with great wisdom that all here will acknowledge.”
The sop to their lacerated pride, Rohan thought, composing himself to enjoy the rest of Sioned’s speech. She had insisted that she be the one to grant them this favor.
“Your lives are now your own,” she told them. “Should you wish to continue in quiet retirement at Castle Crag, you may do so. If there is a manor you would like to live in, that place and all its revenues will be yours for as long as you desire.”
“Your Highness!” gasped Naydra, the eldest of them.
“It was never our intention to leave you in nameless poverty,” Sioned assured her, and Rohan heard astonished whispers in the Hall. “And if there is a man you wish to wed, you will be dowered as befits your royal blood.”
A babble of voices greeted this announcement. Rohan let the noise play itself out, amused. He and Sioned had cast themselves in the role of generous prince, but there were reasons other than public show of magnanimity. Locking up Roelstra’s daughters was not in Rohan’s nature, not even for Pol’s sake, and making silent, captive martyrs of them would have been more dangerous than setting them free to breed children who might one day become a threat. Most would probably sink into obscurity, either living in pleasant manors under close if benevolent watch—he was no fool—or married to some minor lord or other. He looked them over as they struggled to comprehend this total reversal of their fortunes and the prospect of more freedom than their father had ever given them. Eight nonentities, he told himself, but four who would bear observation: Kiele with her new husband Lyell of Waes; Cipris, who at eighteen was sharp and beautiful as a new morning; and sly-eyed little Chiana and her full sister Moswen.
He doubted, however, that many men would be willing to marry a daughter of the late High Prince, despite the rich dowries he intended to provide. He could afford to be generous—especially as he had claimed for the Desert a nice chunk of Princemarch, including the ruins of Feruche and the dragon caves nearby. All thought his reasons were due to some ancient claim of his family. Rohan was not about to enlighten them.
The procession into the Great Hall was nearly over. The daughters took their places, Kiele fuming at the prospect of married sisters as she joined Lyell. Then absolute silence descended as Andrade and Urival walked in. They were both in silver and white, she with moonstones binding her white-gold hair, he with the same gems in a belt around his waist. Knees and heads bent to them as they passed up the long aisle to the high table, and as Rohan bent his own head to his aunt he caught the glimmer of gleeful anticipation in her eyes. He had told her certain things about his plans for tonight that merited the malicious sparkle; he had not told her certain other things, which would probably give her apoplexy. Still—she loved a good show.
The feast began as soon as the wives, heirs, and important retainers of some of the princes present filed in and took their seats. The lowest tables were for the knights and squires, the latter freed from regular duties at table by Rohan’s own servants. Their group was presided over by Maarken and Tilal, two boys who differed from their companions in the self-assurance that came of having known battle. Andry and Sorin were there as well, along with Ostvel’s son Riyan. The trio would be allowed to stay up late so long as no infringement of decorum attracted parental attention.
As the first
course was served, Maeta and a nurse came to take Pol up to bed. He was irritable after being subjected to inspection by so many strangers. Rohan sympathized; he had uncomfortable childhood memories of being similarly on display. But a prince was a prince. It was something Pol would get used to.
Walvis had charge of the knight’s table, his poise shaken only when he happened to glance over at a slim, redheaded girl with gray eyes whom it had pleased Rohan and Ostvel to place at the next table, directly in his line of sight. The two men exchanged a meaningful glance and a grin.
It had also pleased Rohan to order special cups made for the high table. Souvenirs of this night they were, magnificently wrought. A goblet of red Fironese crystal footed in silver served his sister and her lord; plain silver set with moonstones was shared by Andrade and Urival. Beside Ostvel’s plate was a golden cup studded by a single carnelian, and a pair of iridescent blue-green goblets for himself and Sioned had been etched with their new design and footed in dragon gold. He lifted his to her in silent tribute, and she smiled. But then she touched the small, empty golden cup between them, that matched those given to all the other princes. He knew her meaning; they were not Rohan and Sioned tonight, but the Dragon Prince and his Sunrunner princess.
With Lord Farid of Skybowl gone, Rohan’s athr’im had chosen Baisal as their spokesman. Obedient to a signal from Ostvel when the last dishes had been taken away, Baisal got to his feet and waited for quiet. His joyous grin over the prospect of his fine new stone keep had not faded since midwinter, and probably would not disappear until he was dead and burned—and perhaps not even then. Davvi had informed Rohan privately that if payment for the stone was even mentioned, he would cheerfully break his beloved sister’s beloved husband’s neck. Baisal had performed a great service to Syr as well as to the Desert, and Davvi intended to reward him.
Voice rumbling from deep in a chest the size of a winecask, Baisal called for silence and beamed at everyone. “Your highnesses, my lords and ladies, knights, squires, and all here assembled!” he thundered. “Raise your cups and drink with me to the glorious peace won at Dragonfield!”
“Dragonfield!” some yelled, and Rohan’s people turned it into “Dragon Prince!” He caught Sioned’s amused glance as he had the bad manners to drink to himself, and chuckled.
“Through the past days we have all had the honor of private consultation with Prince Rohan, and he has listened to our hopes and plans for the future. This is his custom,” he added blithely, and Rohan bit back a smile at this description of a technique used only once and that had made his vassals very nervous before his first Rialla as their prince. “We have also had the honor of speaking with Prince Lleyn, and this afternoon treaties were signed that define the borders of each princedom and holding for all eternity!” He raised his cup again, flushed with his own eloquence and Davvi’s best Syrene wine. “To the wisdom of Prince Rohan, and the peace that will live forever!”
As the toast was drunk, Sioned whispered. “We’d better shut him up before he starts leading everyone in singing that fool ballad.”
“Oh, I don’t know, I’m rather enjoying this,” he teased, and grinned as she made a discreet face at him. “Oh, very well. Two toasts are enough, I agree, for modesty’s sake.”
“Modest? You?”
Saumer of Isel solved the problem of silencing Baisal’s oratory. “Your pardon, my lord, but we have yet to understand the exact nature of this peace!”
“Watch out,” Chay whispered.
“He couldn’t have given me a better opening if I’d told him what to say,” Rohan answered softly, then stood up. “My thanks, Lord Baisal, for your tribute to the peace we all desire so much.” As Baisal sat down, smug with the compliment from his prince, Rohan addressed Saumer. “Your grace is wise to seek clarification. With the permission of this gathering, I will answer our cousin of Isel’s doubts.”
“In your element, you damned show-off,” Tobin muttered at her brother’s elbow, and he kicked the leg of her chair.
He then spoke the name of each prince, who rose in his turn. Taking the small golden cup into his hand, he gestured for the princes to do likewise. When they had done so, he waited while servants poured thin, sweet Syrene wine. “All princes here present are confirmed in their possessions as stipulated in the treaties signed here today and witnessed by Lady Andrade.” Their graces drank to their own lands and titles. “All athr’im are also confirmed,” Rohan added.
Lyell of Waes stared at the high table with his eyes popping half out of his head. Clutha nudged him and he glanced up to find a stern gaze promising unthinkable consequences if he so much as set a foot wrong in future. Kiele sank back into her chair, faint with relief.
“There are several additions to the lists of athr’im and I am pleased to name them to you tonight.” He heard Sioned give a satisfied sigh. “We present to you first of all Lord Walvis of Remagev.”
It was some moments before the young man understood. Feylin leaned across her own table and hissed at him, “Stand up and bow to your prince who honors you so!” This brought a burst of laughter from the Hall and a flush to Walvis’ cheeks. He shot a furious glance at the girl and took the long walk up to the high table, head high and knees shaking only a little.
When he had made his bow, Rohan murmured for his ears alone, “Hadaan insisted we give you Remagev tonight in front of everyone. He has a condition, though—that you let him stay on at the keep to spoil your children and flirt with your wife.”
Walvis looked involuntarily over his shoulder, but not at Hadaan, who was grinning as proudly as if Walvis was his own son. Sioned quivered with silent laughter and whispered, “What did I tell you? A redhead!”
Crimson to his earlobes, Walvis stared at them and gulped. “I—my lord, my lady, it’s too great an honor.”
“Oh, nonsense,” Sioned told him. As Rohan slipped a ring onto his finger, she continued, “Topaz for a long and happy life, dear Walvis. We love you even more than you love us, and in further token of that love—” She slowly drew a string of shimmering iridescence from a pocket of her green gown, a teasing smile on her face and mischief in her eyes. She was so lovely that Rohan wanted to kiss her in front of the whole Hall.
“My lady!” Walvis gasped as the rivulet of glowing silver-gray pearls trickled into his palm.
“Suitable for a wedding necklet, I’d say,” Tobin contributed, and Chay aided and abetted by drawling, “Don’t fuss the boy, Tobin. He’s got the idea.”
Walvis’ wide blue eyes went helplessly from his prince to his princess. Sioned winked at him. “One day, Walvis, you must tell me exactly what happened at Tiglath. You may bow to us now, my lord,” she prompted. He did so and started back to his seat in a daze. Ostvel rose and escorted him to a place made amid Rohan’s other vassals. He sat with the pearls in both hands, stunned.
Rohan cleared his throat. “We present to you next Lord Tilal of River Run. Prince Davvi, the honor of confirming your son in his holding is yours.”
This elevation was no surprise to any of those directly involved. Tilal left the squires’ table and went to where his parents sat with his older brother Kostas. A ring was given and Tilal bowed to his father before turning to bow again in the direction of the high table. Wisla, already dizzy with delight at five days of being addressed as her grace of Syr by other princes, burst into happy tears. Kostas, eighteen winters old and a prince now himself, grinned at his little brother and made room for him at the table. A servant brought a chair for the new Lord of River Run, who hardly dared breathe.
“Goddess, how I love being a prince!” Rohan whispered to Sioned, smiling down at her. She was alight with an even greater excitement now, for next would come the best of the night’s surprises, known only to the two of them.
“We present to you now,” he called out, “Lord Ostvel of Skybowl.”
He froze at the far end of the high table, unable to move or speak. Chay pushed him up with a hand beneath his elbow and he managed to put one foot
in front of the other until he stood facing Rohan and Sioned, his back to the assembly. His face was ashen and so bewildered that Rohan worried about his ability to stay upright.
From far down the Great Hall a small voice cried out, “Is Papa in trouble, prince?”
“Not in the least!” Rohan called back above the laughter. “You come up here too, Riyan.”
The boy raced up and clung to his father’s hand. Ostvel looked down at him, this irrepressible little boy with Camigwen’s wonderful dark eyes. When he faced Rohan again, his own eyes shone with tears.
“You trust me with the caves?” he murmured.
Sioned answered for them. “We trust you with our lives.”
“Forgiven?” he asked quietly.
Rohan did not understand the look that passed between them. Sioned bit her lip, then nodded solemnly. “If I am.”
Ostvel bowed his head. “She would have understood much sooner than I did, Sioned. If you’re determined to give this honor, do it for her, not me.”
“For you both,” she replied.
Rohan slipped onto Ostvel’s finger a ring set with a topaz so dark a golden-brown that it was nearly the color of Riyan’s eyes. To the child he said, “Your papa is a great lord now.”
Riyan looked excited, then suddenly forlorn. “Does that mean I have to be good all the time? No more playing dragons?”
“Oh, lots of playing dragons,” Rohan assured him. “You’ll have to teach Pol how, you know.” He reflected that there would be real dragons aplenty in the years ahead, seeking the caves around Skybowl now that they had forsaken Rivenrock for good. He envied Riyan the chance to see them so often.
The boy nodded his relief. “That’s all right, then. And I’ll be good, prince. I promise.”
Father and son went to the end of the high table, Riyan snuggling comfortably onto Ostvel’s lap. Rohan sought out the other fine young lords who would teach Pol: Maarken, Sorin, Andry, Tilal, who would be his friends and support in the future. Eltanin’s boy Tallain would be another, and the children Walvis would have with Feylin—who loved dragons. He smiled, wondering if Sioned’s other prediction would be right, too, and they would name a daughter after her.