The Dragon Token

by Melanie Rawn

  • • •

  “My father was a man of great power. His strength of mind and heart, his wisdom and his courage, these things all of you know. But perhaps the greatest of his strengths was that he understood power and was wary of it. As High Prince, with the wealth of the Desert behind him, and with a formidable Sunrunner as his Princess, he might have taken any land he fancied and ruled only to please himself. But he did not. That was the true greatness of his power, as he saw it: that he so rarely used it.”

  But everything he ever taught me or told me is useless to me now. What good is law and gentle persuasion and waiting for the right moment to act when the world is collapsing around me? I love you, Father, I admire you, and everything I’m saying now is true. But why didn’t you ever teach me the things I really needed to know? How do I defeat these barbarians with laws written on a parchment page?

  • • •

  “. . . and the world is a more threatening place without him. In his last season of life he saw lands ravaged and castles razed. He saw battles that killed his people. And all that he kept safe is safe no longer.”

  Once more Andry paused, the two visions of Radzyn hovering in his mind. One in flames, the scene of years of nightmares; the other as it was now, intact and proud but echoing to Vellanti footfalls. Andry had seen destruction that meant the enemy had no usable base in the Desert. Reality was a keep still whole but given over to their ease and comfort. Which was failure, and which was victory?

  He didn’t know anymore.

  “Our task now is to restore the peace that he cherished more than his own life. And those who think that he failed will learn otherwise. He lived, and he kept us safe. That was his gift to us. With his silent challenge before us—to do our work as well as we know how, and then to do it even better—we cannot fail. With his example living still, especially in the hearts of those who knew him best, we will know that safety again.”

  Andry lifted both arms slowly, and slowly every candle lit as if a breath of Fire blew across the wicks one by one. The fields before him blazed to life with flames that burned to mark a death.

  Torien, as Chief Steward of Goddess Keep, led the Sunrunners and castlefolk out to the walls, where the candles were placed in the soft ground. They filed back through the gates.

  Jayachin came forward to place her own candle and that of her little boy. After her shuffled nearly three thousand others, and by the time it was done the tiny Fires embraced the foundation stones like a half-moat of white and gold.

  Andry wondered if anyone else saw it the way he did: incomplete, as if one saw the top half of a ring and assumed that it indeed circled the whole finger, not knowing it was a sham and a deception.

  But it was Rohan the flames symbolized. It could not be a Sunrunner’s ring. His had been only a halfling gift. So perhaps the half-circle of light was appropriate after all.

  • • •

  There were no candles at the Court of the Storm God. Pol raised one hand and called Fire to unlit torches. Bright as day they blazed, making stone beacons of the pale yellow and orange and dark russet of the spires.

  He thought of the Fire that still burned, spilling down from the Flametower at Stronghold. And of another fire that should have replaced it, but would remain unlit for what he suspected would be a long time. His own fire.

  The great topaz gleamed in its circle of emeralds where Chay had placed it on his finger only a little while ago. He had never seen that ring on any hand but his father’s. To find it now on his own cut him to the heart.

  He stood there in the blazing night, Fire lighting the tears that ran like scars down his cheeks.

  Chapter Three

  The Vellanti courier strode across Princess Chiana’s priceless carpets, leaving a trail of mulchy leaves, raindrops, and mud. He was lacquered in it head to foot and as he yanked off his cap in her presence, water flew in all directions.

  Chiana hastily drew back in her chair. “How dare you come in here covered in filth! Look what you’ve done!”

  “Mother,” Rinhoel murmured, pale green eyes intent on the single clean thing about the courier, a little gleam of gold stashed safely in the cap. He held out his hand and when the dragon token was in his grasp he wasted precisely one instant admiring its solid gold wings and ruby eyes. “You come from the High Warlord, then.”

  “Yes, my lord. Rohan is dead at Stronghold. It and he still burn with cursed Fire.”

  “Dead?” Chiana gasped. “Are you certain?”

  He looked at her as if she were insane. “Would it be said if it were untrue?”

  “But how did he die? Not in battle, surely!”

  “At his years?” the courier scoffed. “When warriors beat through the flames, they came upon him lying on the ground as if sleeping. None dared touch him, nor come too close, but a physician looked and saw, and believes his heart stopped in his chest.”

  Chiana snorted. “A wonder Sioned’s didn’t stop, as well—one heart in two bodies.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth, the corners of her mouth curving. “Poor Sioned. Oh, poor, poor Sioned!”

  She was still grinning—inside—when she summoned Rialt and Naydra and told them the High Prince was dead. She explained her knowledge by saying that couriers had ridden night and day since the terrible tragedy; true enough, and unnecessary to identify exactly whose couriers, for the instant the news left her lips they were too stunned to think.

  Rinhoel, standing nearby, wore a decently sorrowful expression. “Naturally, the ritual will be held tonight. Our steward will provide the proper gray clothes and all that must be done will be done. Lady Aurar notwithstanding,” he added with a frown.

  “Aurar?” Naydra echoed, bewildered. Her eyes were liquid with grief; Rialt looked sick, too dumbstruck to comprehend anything.

  Chiana, watching her half-sister’s face, blessed her son’s cleverness. “Aurar refuses to put on mourning. She says it serves Rohan right for condoning her father’s murder and for sending Kostas to take Catha Heights.” She gave a tiny shrug. “As if it was Rohan’s fault that Patwin turned traitor, or that Mirsath killed him at Faolain Lowland.”

  Rinhoel nodded. “I’m afraid her sorrow for her father has unsettled her mind. I’ve told her not to show her face at the ritual if she knows what’s good for her.”

  That Aurar had other, better things to do with her time went unmentioned; the purpose of the little exercise was to excuse her absence. Not that either Naydra or Rialt would notice, Chiana thought. Still, best to be cautious.

  “May I leave, your grace?” Rialt asked suddenly.

  Chiana nodded her sympathy. “Of course. This is a terrible loss to us all, Master Rialt.”

  For once he did not arch a sardonic brow as she deprived him of his honorary title. He walked from the room as if in a dream. Naydra went with him. Rinhoel waited until the outer doors had closed before turning a broad smile on his mother.

  “They’ll be paralyzed for days over this.”

  “They’d better be. I don’t like to think what Rialt could get up to if he found out Tilal and Ostvel are so close to Swalekeep.”

  “But they’ll be paralyzed, too. This couldn’t have come at a better time!” He threw the golden dragon into the air, catching it before tossing it into her lap. “Thus too Castle Crag, my lady, after the Vellanti have beaten its lord outside our walls.”

  “Will they come in time?” Despite the excellent turn of events, she was fretful. “There’s been no reply from Lord Varek.”

  “His army marching up the Faolain will be answer enough. Don’t worry, Mother.”

  “I’ll try not to—but it’s been my whole life, Rinhoel, waiting, always waiting. . . .” Another thought occurred to her. “We’d better send someone with Aurar, to make sure she hands over our letter instead of tending to her own ambitions. Do you know she had the gall to order me to march on Syr?”

  He paused, watching her delicate, scarred fingers toy with the ruby-eyed token. “Actually, it’s
not such a bad idea—once Tilal and Ostvel are taken care of. Kostas is dead and his army is commanded by Saumer and Rihani. There wouldn’t be much credit in defeating two boys my own age, even if they are princes, but—”

  Chiana stiffened. “I won’t have you risk yourself!”

  “Mother—”

  “No! Absolutely not! And if you mention it again, I’ll forbid you even to ride the outskirts of the battle against Tilal and Ostvel!”

  Rinhoel looked rebellious, then shrugged. “As you wish. But once I’m High Prince, not even you will stop me from doing as I wish.”

  “Once you’re High Prince, there’ll be no danger of your being killed in a war. That’s the one good thing Rohan did in his life. He gave the princes and athr’im a taste for peace. Once the Vellant’im have what they want—and we have what we want—there will be peace again.”

  He laughed down at her. “Oh, Mother, how can you believe that?”

  “You just think about power for a time, my son!” she snapped. “A High Prince who’s constantly at war is a High Prince who’s not being obeyed.”

  That Rinhoel had never considered this before was clear in his eyes. At last he nodded. “As you wish,” he repeated.

  “Good.” Placing the dragon token on a table beside her, she shook out her skirts and rose. “We’ll have to talk to your father and work out what he’ll say at the ritual tonight.”

  “Thank the Goddess neither of us has to speak. I’m going to have enough trouble not laughing.”

  • • •

  Pol finally located Sioned, but only because he recognized the man riding protectively at her side. Though Meath had covered his graying head with the hood of his cloak, no one else had his height or breadth of shoulder. Pol ached a little at the Sunrunner’s weary slump, memory supplying him with a picture of a vigorous man in the prime of his life who had taught him everything from basic swordsmanship to fine control of a Fire-conjuring. Now Meath seemed old.

  But Sioned was straight-spined and elegant as ever in the saddle. Pol had been prepared to find her as hunched and weary as Meath. He had also expected to see the familiar shining cascade of her hair. The short curls were a shock. His gaze had passed right by her at first—just as hers did now, green eyes filmed with dullness that made a lie of her outward composure. For all the recognition she gave him, he might have been one of the swirling wind-carved stones that rose to either side of the trail through the Court of the Storm God.

  Meath saw him and shook his head. Pol hesitated. He understood the warning, but he had not spoken to his mother since the remains of his army had met up with those who had escaped Stronghold. He’d only glimpsed her last night, and only after he’d called Fire to honor Rohan’s memory, and even then he’d been unsure of the hooded woman’s identity until the emerald ring flashed when she covered her face and turned away.

  Meath’s look again cautioned him against approaching Sioned. He rode forward anyway; he’d found no comfort in the ritual, still less in his own words, and only a little in his reunion with Meiglan and his daughters. He knew it would be even worse for Sioned. Perhaps they could find ease for their grief together.

  “Mother?” No reply, no reaction, nothing. “Mama,” he whispered, and heard a plea in his voice that belonged to the child who had called her that.

  It was only when Meath spoke her name that she glanced around. Her gaze found Pol without curiosity and almost without knowledge of who he was. She wore the polite social mask he’d seen a thousand times, the face behind which she hid boredom or anger or impatience. Her eyes were lightless and her voice was impersonal as she said, “Yes?”

  “I thought—I thought we might ride together for a little ways.”

  Her answer was gently courteous. “There’s hardly room for it through the Spindle Forest. Perhaps later?” Her attention returned to the trail ahead.

  “Mama—”

  Respectful but insistent, Meath said, “Please, Pol. Not now.”

  Pol nodded helplessly. As he waited for Maarken and Kazander, who rode at the rear of the line, he told himself that she was still in shock—well, wasn’t he?

  Visian, Kazander’s brother-by-marriage, was speaking animatedly to the young korrus, whose black eyes were alight with feral glee. Maarken had developed an apprehensive expression; Pol rode up in time to hear him say, “I’m not your commander, my lord, so you can do as you like. But I doubt even your Isulk’im are ready for another fight.”

  Kazander snorted. “Against that pitiable handful of barbarians who sit horses like kittens squatting to piss?” He caught sight of Pol and bowed, one hand over his heart. “Mighty prince, I beg you. Allow your humble and unworthy servant to gift you with the heads of your enemies. Few as they are, it will make a start. Before the winter becomes the spring, I swear to slice necks until my sword blunts on their backbones, and—”

  Maarken shrugged. “If you’re determined to do it, then go enjoy yourself. As I say, my authority doesn’t include the Isulk’im.”

  The korrus looked hurt. “Great and noble athri, my heart and sword are yours—second only to the commands of the High Prince himself.”

  Never, Pol decided, would he get used to people saying that title while looking at him. “No, my lord,” he told Kazander. “Until noon, I’m yours to command. I’m going with you.”

  “Pol!”

  “I’m going,” he repeated, goaded by the memory of his mother’s eyes. They would pay for what they had done to her—and to his daughters as well, for their pain and shock and fear as they and the other Sunrunners were assaulted by iron. He would kill and kill until the canyon flowed with blood, and he would laugh and laugh—

  “Don’t be a fool!” Maarken rasped.

  Pol ignored him. To Kazander, he said, “Tell me what you plan.”

  He looked from the High Prince to the Battle Commander in mute distress. Then, with a small, fatalistic sigh, he said, “We will wait for them at the Harps—a wind is rising, and the sound will disguise any noises of our gathering. Visian, yours is the honor of riding with the High Prince.”

  “Yes, my lord!” The young man—scarcely more than a boy—cast a quick glance at Maarken that said Pol would be protected whether he liked it or not.

  “I trust you won’t mind if I don’t mention this insanity to your wife,” Maarken said in acid tones.

  The unsubtle reminder irritated Pol. He needed vengeance right now more than anybody else needed to know him safe.

  “The High Princess has nothing to fear,” Kazander proclaimed.

  Pol froze. If it was impossible to associate his own name with “High Prince,” still less could he hear “High Princess” and think of Meiglan.

  Maarken gave him a look that went right through him. “Enjoy yourself,” he invited acidly. But Pol saw the way he flexed his damaged wrist, and knew that despite his protests, Maarken wanted to be in on the action, too.

  The Harps was a deep, ragged cave high up the sandstone wall where water trickled through from some buried spring. At its narrow mouth, caught between the moisture and the sun, grew several varieties of cactus and succulents, many of them with long, sharp needles. Almost any breeze was drawn into the cave to swirl in the coolness and emerge through a shaft of collapsed soft stone—and on its way in, rustled the cactus spines until they vibrated like harp strings. The stronger the wind, the louder and wilder the music. And as Pol rode with the Isulk’im to the gully below the Harps, he could hear swift and eerie harmonies punctuated by the slow droning of air escaping the shaft.

  Kazander drew rein half a measure from the cavern. His black eyes swept over the thirty-two who rode with him, narrowing on this one or that as if selecting special skills. He made a series of complex gestures with his right hand that sent all but five of his men off to hide where they could amid toppled boulders and standing spires. Before Pol had drawn ten breaths, the twisting little canyon was empty.

  His amazement must have shown on his face. Kazander glanced over a
nd grinned, a flash of white teeth below his mustache. “A simple enough trick. I will teach it to you, if you like.”

  “I’d like,” Pol replied. He looked around again, not even hearing the Isulki horses. “Though why you needed the cover of the Harps—”

  “There is the occasional carelessness.” Kazander shrugged. “Visian, find a place for the High Prince and yourself.”

  “Wait,” Pol said. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

  “You’ll know.”

  Visian led him past a bend in the gully to a balancing stone, a flat pale slab poised atop a broad-based pillar tapering upward to a point scarcely as wide as a woman’s wrist. From this angle, it looked as if a breath would overset the huge rock. But as they climbed up, Pol found that while narrow from back to front, the width of the pillar had been disguised by shadow. There was plenty of room to conceal their horses and themselves behind the wall and beneath the overhang—though he caught himself glancing nervously up at the several hundred silkweights of rock above his head. He knew very well that the formation was one giant piece of stone, its softer parts worn away until the balancing illusion was perfect. Still. . . .

  He touched Visian’s sleeve. “I won’t be left out of this,” he warned, whispering even though the Harps had responded to a shift in the wind and sound wailed through the canyon.

  The young man looked shocked. “My lord korrus bade me ride with the High Prince—not wet-nurse him.”

  Pol chuckled low in his throat. “Just so we understand each other.”

  Visian shyly returned his smile. “Besides, great Azhrei, you’re bigger than I am. How could I stop you?”

  Pol turned to watch for Vellant’im. The word caught at him. Rohan had been the Azhrei, the dragon prince. Pol had inherited everything, it seemed—from the Desert to the title of High Prince to the name bestowed on Rohan in affection and awe. And none of it fit, not the words or the concepts. Maarken had told him that he’d never be the man or the prince his father was until he knew what it was to hurt so much he thought he’d die of it. Maarken had been wrong. He ached as if his heart was being crushed within his chest, but he knew it to be a selfish pain. I want my father back! something young and frightened cried, and the hurt grew all the worse when only silence answered.