The Dragon Token

by Melanie Rawn

  His daughters immediately accused Rialt of vile insults and preparations to do violence. Halian, for all his faults as a ruler, was a tender parent when his children were called to his notice. He turned angry eyes on Rialt.

  “How dare you lay threatening hands on a Daughter of Meadowlord? You forget yourself! You should be thrown into prison.”

  All three ladies—one of them rubbing her shoulder as if a hatchling dragon had clawed her—looked gratified at the prospect.

  Halian continued. “But as you are valued by my niece Cluthine and my wife’s sister Naydra. . . .” He gestured, and a guard came forward. “Escort him to his quarters.”

  That was Halian right down to the ground, Rialt thought in disgust: he couldn’t stay a prince for more than two breaths together. In a similar situation, a single withering phrase from Rohan would make the transgressor slink away wishing he’d never been born; Pol would simply have flattened the culprit with a fist to the jaw. But then, no one would ever have dared put a finger on any lady associated with Rohan or Pol—and not just for fear of the princes, either.

  As Rialt was summarily removed from the hall, he caught sight of Rinhoel’s face: a marvel of affronted dignity marred only by the glee grinning from his pale green eyes.

  • • •

  Morning again. Morning of the fourth day since Rohan’s death.

  I must stop thinking that, Chay told himself, holding his wife more tightly in his arms as they rode. If I don’t stop, I’ll think of nothing else. But oh, Goddess, it hurts so much.

  There was wisdom to the ritual of burning. The daylong fast cleansed body and mind; the gathering of family and castlefolk comforted with a sense of shared grief, even as total silence secluded them one from the other. The endless wait for dawn gave time for thoughts and memories. And the final wafting of ashes on a morning breeze called up by a Sunrunner freed the spirits of the living as well as the dead.

  But the ritual deep within the Court of the Storm God had not been that of burning. Chay had not seen his prince consumed by Fire, nor felt the gentle release of the wind. There had been no nightlong silence in which to remember, to allow pain to claim him and then quietly let him go. He had not worked his way from grief that Rohan was dead to gratitude that he had lived. He had not said farewell.

  He rode with Tobin wrapped in his arms, as he had during their escape from Radzyn. She was crying again. Despite the hundreds of people around them as they rode through the Court of the Storm God, she hid her face against Chay’s shirt and cried.

  He felt the raw wound of her grief as keenly as his own. For all the others they had lost, they’d cried in private. For her father, killed by a dragon; for her mother; for their sons—he had held her and wept with her. But they did not have the luxury of solitude now. Chay held her close and said nothing to soothe or silence her. What could he say?

  So he stared stolidly at the trail ahead, cradling his wife in his arms. Around them, the wind-carved sandstone rose in irregular layered towers, some thick as castle turrets and others slender as ship masts, struggling to cast shadows in pallid dawnlight. The people of Stronghold and Remagev and Radzyn—riding, borne on litters, or walking—traced the meandering path among the rocks. It was mindless. One step after another. It left too much room in the brain for thinking.

  Tobin finally raised her head. “Where?” she asked, strain roughening her voice and slowing her speech.

  “Just coming up on the Sentinel Stone.”

  “Too slow.”

  “Don’t worry. They won’t follow us in.”

  She twisted to look at his face and ask a silent question with her eyes.

  “Pol,” he said reluctantly. “Maarken says that he and Kazander rode back to the Harps. They plan some discouragement.”

  “Idiot!” she hissed.

  “Don’t fret over it. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m old,” he said tersely. Then he smiled, a mere shifting of the exhaustion beneath the dirt and sweat on his face. “They’ll be all right. We all will. The Vellant’im won’t dare chase us through here. As your father told me the first time we ever rode through this maze, this is one hell of a place to lose a cow.”

  Tobin gave a snort and subsided. But once her head had fallen back to his shoulder, Chay bit both lips between his teeth. The words had brought a memory of their youth: riding this very trail, hoping for some time alone, unable to escape watchful attendants. All at once a boy had galloped by, yelling like an Isulki warrior, and the servants had taken off in a panic to keep the precious heir to the Desert from killing himself on his new Radzyn stallion.

  Thus had Rohan gleefully aided his sister’s aim of capturing the Lord of Radzyn for her own. Chay could still see him, all golden hair and blue eyes and reckless energy, laughing as he hurtled past, his grin as wide as his twelve-year-old face.

  Chay knew enough about grief to know that such memories would eventually make him smile. If he lived long enough.

  “My lord? I’m to tell you that Prince—I mean, that the High Prince has returned.”

  Glancing around, Chay saw Rohan’s—now Pol’s—squire, Daniv of Syr. A ruling prince now himself, this war and his father Kostas’ death in it had taken all his mother’s gentleness from his face. Chay wondered if Danladi would even recognize her son in this grim-faced, stubble-chinned young warrior.

  “Intact?” This from Tobin, who had tensed in Chay’s embrace.

  “Very much so, my lady. And victorious.”

  “Fine,” Chay rasped. “I want a little chat with his grace, Daniv. Lend me your horse.”

  Carefully descending from his saddle, he made sure his wife was steady in it before handing the reins to the young man. He mounted the other horse and cursed his bones for creaking.

  “Will you need a torch, my lord?”

  “I was threading this maze with my eyes closed thirty years before you were born. See to my wife’s comfort, Daniv. I’ll be back soon.”

  He found them easily. Running one scathing glance down Pol’s bloody clothing, he muttered, “I see you took Maarken’s advice, and enjoyed yourself.”

  “Yes.”

  The word was both calm and fierce, reminding Chay of Rohan more than he was willing to admit. The jaw was longer and there was no cleft in the chin and the eyes were more green than blue right now, but Pol was his father’s son.

  And his mother’s. And it was not Sioned Chay thought of at that moment.

  Kazander filled up the silence in his own inimitable way. “Dread Lord of Radzyn, fifty of the barbarians watered the canyon of the Harps with their blood. To ward off what horrors might spring from such foulness, we piled them like empty sacks and burned them. This is what kept us so long, for which this wretched servant asks pardon.”

  Chay was in no mood for garlands of Isulki eloquence. “I see,” he said shortly. Then, relenting a little, he asked, “Did any of you take hurt?”

  “Pinpricks,” was the reply, with a shrug.

  “Have them tended.”

  Kazander looked from him to Pol as if wondering whether they should be left alone in close proximity. But then he bowed and rode off, his troops with him.

  “I owe Maarken a report,” Pol said. “Where is he?”

  “With his wife.”

  “As I ought to be with mine?” A sun-bleached brow arched in the tanned face that was so close an echo of his father’s.

  But not quite. Not quite. He never will be Rohan. I have to stop looking for what I’ve lost.

  “You do as you like—High Prince.” And for the first time since Roelstra’s death, Chay used the title as an insult.

  Pol exploded. “Damn you, what else can I do but fight when and how I can?”

  “You can keep yourself alive—chances of which aren’t improved by galloping around waving your sword!”

  “My father’s sword,” Pol hissed. “This one, the very one he killed Roelstra with—and then put away because he be
lieved in peace. The Vellant’im don’t share that belief, my lord! And I don’t have the luxury.”

  Setting heels to his weary horse, he rode away. And as he passed among the straggling lines of refugees, Chay heard them say the name of their new High Prince with admiration and with pride.

  The sound weighted the old man’s shoulders with despair. Goddess forgive me, but if not for Tobin I would have done better to have died with my prince.

  Chapter Four

  The Court of the Storm God was behind them, the trail to Skybowl in front of them. It was Pol’s intent to send the wounded there and continue on with the able-bodied to Feruche. When informed of this during a rest stop, Feylin swung around from salving a blister on Meiglan’s palm and gaped at him.

  “You must be joking! Look at these people—and if you’ve no mind for them, look at their horses!”

  “We should have been nearly to Feruche by now,” he argued. “Instead, we’re barely in range of Skybowl.”

  “And anyone with eyes to see can understand why!” She turned to glare up at Maarken where he sat his weary stallion. “Will you please explain to him that the rest of us need foolish trifles like sleep and food every so often? And that we’re not going to get them traipsing all over the Desert?”

  The Battle Commander gave a shrug. “You seem to be expressing yourself well. Have at it.”

  “My lord . . . ?”

  They turned at the sound of Meiglan’s small, hesitant voice. Pol’s eyes softened and he nodded encouragement. “What is it, Meggie?”

  “I’m sorry, my lord, but—but I think Lady Feylin is right.” Her fingers clenched around cuts and bruises left by reins on her ungloved palms, and her cheeks were pale beneath her sunburn, but her voice gained in confidence as she spoke. “For the children’s sake, if no one else’s, we ought to rest at Skybowl. If you wish to ride on to Feruche, I’m sure Kazander and his people are fit enough to guard us along the way.”

  “Us?”

  “Why, yes, my lord,” she answered, sounding surprised.

  Maarken smiled for the first time in days. “She rode all the way from Dragon’s Rest to be at your side. Do you think she’ll let you go off without her now?”

  Pol cleared his throat and cast a speculative look at his wife. “Ummm . . . that won’t be necessary, my lady. We’ll do as you suggest, and stay a day or two at Skybowl.”

  To Rohan, Sioned would have made some sarcastic comment about having to prop his eyelids open with tent stakes before he saw what was in front of him. Meiglan only murmured her thanks to Pol and opened her hands again so Feylin could finish her work.

  Later, riding with Maarken at his side, Pol said, “Does Hollis still surprise you sometimes?” His cousin snorted by way of reply. Pol grunted irritably and muttered, “Don’t tell me, I already know. Stupid question.”

  They found Walvis and told him everyone would be going to Skybowl. He nodded as if this had been obvious from the first.

  “We’ll leave the wounded there, and a small force to guard the approach,” Pol said, thinking aloud. “Would you consider staying?”

  “Whatever you like.” He rubbed his thigh, just re-bandaged by Chayla. “I won’t be much use for a while yet.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she called from nearby, where she was checking the splints around a warrior’s broken arm. “If you’ll stay off that leg for six or seven days, it’ll be fine. Father, how’s your shoulder?”

  “Healing nicely, and no, you may not examine it. Feylin does very good work.” He smiled down at her as she stood and hefted her coffer of medicines. “I’ll see what I can do about finding you a lighter box. I hate to think of you lugging that thing all the way to Feruche.”

  “But I’ll be staying at Skybowl with my patients. Oh, don’t frown at me! They need me.”

  Maarken drew himself up in his saddle. “I absolutely forbid it. You’re coming with us to Feruche and that’s final.”

  Chayla set her jaw, visibly preparing to do battle. Pol opened his mouth to make it an order of the High Prince—but Walvis spoke first.

  “You think you have no patients here who need you? Your grandmother looks so frail she might break. And what about Sioned?”

  The very name sobered everyone. Swallowing hard, Pol turned to Chayla. “How is she?”

  Dusty golden hair straggled around her face as she shook her head. “Meath stays with her. He tells her when to mount her horse and when to eat and when to sleep—but she doesn’t, of that I’m sure. Jihan and Rislyn ride with her every so often, and she seems pleased to have them near. But she hasn’t spoken a word.”

  “Perhaps if I spent some time with her. Told her what we’re doing, that we’re going to take back what’s ours—”

  “How?” Maarken asked. “Leave her alone, Pol. She needs time to grieve.”

  “What makes you think we have the time?”

  “We have nothing but.” Maarken held up one gloved hand, fingers folding in as he made each point. “Arlis and his fleet are trapped by winter storms at New Raetia. Kostas is dead and two seventeen-year-old boys command the army of Syr. Chiana sits in Swalekeep supplying the enemy. Tilal and Ostvel may or may not have to fight her—and the Vellant’im at the same time. Riyan and Tallain have to finish off the Merida before they can join us. What can we do but wait and lick our wounds?”

  Pol gazed at Maarken’s fist, closed as if around a sword. But not yet. Not for a long while yet. “I keep having to admit that you’re right,” he said ruefully. “And you’re ordered to remind me of that whenever I start talking nonsense again. But I do know one thing, Maarken. We have only a few battles left in us. Start thinking about how we can bring all the Vellant’im to one place and destroy them. We don’t have the resources left to wage a long war.”

  “I agree,” Walvis replied. “A place and a time of our choosing.”

  “With all our powers secure and to hand,” Maarken added.

  He couldn’t help it. He said. “And how is Andry these days?”

  Andry’s brother looked him straight in the eye. “I haven’t the vaguest idea. Why don’t you go Sunrunning and find out for yourself?”

  Pol shrugged gracelessly. “No, thanks all the same.”

  “You may have to,” Walvis said. “We might need his help.”

  “You might,” Pol snapped. “I don’t.” Turning to Maarken again, he said, “When you see Hollis, tell her that I want her and Meath to figure out what happened at Stronghold during the working, and why, and what we can do to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  “There’s a lot we’ll have to ask Sioned. She was in the primary position.”

  “There’s a name for it in the Star Scroll—didn’t she tell you? Ruskuvel.”

  Tired gray eyes narrowed as he translated it silently: leader, mind, sword. Walvis and Chayla didn’t ask.

  “I don’t think you ought to bother her with it,” Maarken said at last.

  “Let her be,” Chayla added. “Don’t trouble her with things that have no meaning for her.”

  “No meaning?” Pol asked sharply.

  “None. She’s in shock, you see—as if she’d lost a limb. Something I’ve noticed since Remagev is that sometimes the wounded believe that an arm or leg is still there. When they look and find it gone, the pain begins anew—in what is no longer there. I think that’s how it is with Sioned. As long as she doesn’t look. . . .” She finished with a helpless shrug.

  “Fifteen winters old,” Maarken murmured, shaking his head.

  “Coming up on sixteen,” she reminded him with a little smile.

  “Yes, and too fast to suit me. Very well, heartling, we’ll wait. But there are things about what happened that only Sioned can say for certain.”

  • • •

  Lady Ruala was the mistress of Skybowl and of Feruche, her husband Riyan’s castles, and of Elktrap Manor in her own right. None of her residences had a population over two hundred. The influx of refugees from Dorval, sent across t
he Long Sand to Skybowl after landing near Tiglath, had strained her resources to their limits. And now Pol had just told her on sunlight that he would be arriving with the combined survivors of Radzyn, Whitecliff, Remagev, and Stronghold.

  Ruala didn’t bother asking where she was going to put them all. She bade him be welcome and said she would be ready for him. But when he had left her and she opened her eyes again, she gripped the balustrade stones and wondered what in the Goddess’ Name she was going to do.

  “Ruala?” asked a soft voice. “Are you all right, my dear?”

  She barely heard Princess Audrite’s question. She was too busy measuring the distance from the crater’s lip to the water with her gaze, trying to calculate whether or not adequate shelters could be erected for—Goddess help her—over a thousand more people.

  “Ruala?”

  She turned to Audrite, her rising panic soothed by the older woman’s calm presence. “They’re coming here. All of them.”

  “All?” Brown eyes, beautiful still for all her sixty-seven winters, blinked in startlement. Recovery was instantaneous. “Just so. See to your own people as you need to, and leave the Dorvali to me. We can meet with your steward at midday and begin building something along the shore—” Suddenly she broke off and made a little gesture of apology. “I’m sorry, my dear. I’m behaving as if this were my castle.”

  “Without your help thus far, I would have gone quite mad,” Ruala assured her. Graypearl and its port town, ten times the size of all of Ruala’s holdings together, had taught Audrite how to manage vast numbers of people. Besides, it was useful to have the authority of their princess ready when Ruala needed it to deal with the fractious Dorvali merchants.

  But near the end of that short and frantic winter day, Ruala found that not even Audrite could move Master Nemthe. Literally. The richest and most influential of the silk merchants, he flatly refused to see his family turned out of the chamber allotted them.

  “He says, my lady,” reported Ruala’s steward in a voice shaking with anger, “that he sees no reason why he ought to give way for soldiers who failed in their duty to protect Stronghold.”