by Melanie Rawn
Arlis’ little brother was very good at war. They both knew it; now Saumer had just said so aloud.
He leaned over the bed and put a hand on Rihani’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“But it’s true,” he rasped. “I’m no good at this. I never will be.”
“No good? You’ve killed at least as many Vellant’im as I have, and probably more that you don’t even remember with the heat of battle-blood in you.”
“So what?” Rihani asked wearily. “I’m frightened when it begins, I’m frightened while it happens, I’m frightened when it’s over. I know you’re scared, too. Everybody is. But the fire doesn’t strengthen me the way it does you, Saumer. It burns me alive. I do what I have to, I kill very nicely, thank you—but when it’s all over, all I want to do is curl in a corner somewhere and throw up.”
“I did,” Saumer admitted frankly. “The first battle after we left High Kirat. I thought my stomach would turn inside out.”
“Has it happened since?” Rihani shook his head. “You’re used to it by now. I’m not.” He hesitated, and decided against adding, And I don’t ever want to be. Sliding down into sheets damp with fever-sweat, he closed his eyes. “I’ll do as you say. I’ll go to Aunt Danladi and give what comfort I can. Lead Syr’s armies. Much better you than I.”
• • •
Skybowl, though not exactly transformed overnight, was not the quiet and well-ordered keep Pol remembered. A small village of makeshift tents and shelters had been erected along the lakeshore.
“They look comfortable enough,” he observed to Kazander as they paused on the crater’s crest.
“More so if they’d built on the leeside, my prince,” the young man replied.
“There isn’t one. Wind circles here like wine swirled in a cup, and in any direction it pleases.” He looked over his shoulder at the Desert spread out below, then back down to the perfect roundness of the lake. Here, the night after his birth, he had been Named—the night Roelstra died beneath Sioned’s woven dome of starfire, Rohan’s sword in his throat. The sword Pol now carried.
Abruptly his head lifted, at the same instant as Maarken’s. A familiar quiver stroked the edge of his senses, skittered around his mind.
Dragons.
They darkened the sky a moment later, nine of them, casting shadows with their wings. Azhdeen flew point, bellowing what amounted to an announcement of his royal presence and a summons into it. Pol slid from the saddle, knees nearly buckling with weariness, and scrambled across the rough stones. His dragon landed neatly on an outcropping of rock and growled his usual permission to come closer.
“Come to make sure I’m still in one piece?” Pol asked, starting forward. “I see you’ve brought company this time.”
In fact, six human-owning dragons had come to Skybowl this afternoon. Abisel poised nearby, humming a welcome at Hollis. She dismounted quickly and ran toward the dragon, her tawny gold hair shining like a beacon against outspread wings. Maarken had withdrawn a little way, waiting politely for the gorgeous black-and-silver Pavisel to refresh herself at the lake. Pol recognized Sadalian, Riyan’s dragon, by his black underwings as he rose on an updraft; red-gold Azhly flew over the castle, calling out to Ruala. Pol’s heart ached a little as he saw Morwenna’s Elidi turn abruptly on a wingtip and start back along the line of people trudging up the road to the crater’s lip. The one she looked for, she would not find.
The three other dragons—a young blue-black female and two reddish males—circled overhead, bleating for notice. Azhdeen lifted his head and roared. They beat nervous wings, then landed on the shore a respectful distance from their elders to assuage the thirst of the long flight from the Catha Hills.
“Who are your friends? Did you bring them for a reason, or were they just curious?” Pol rubbed the delicate hide around the dragon’s nostrils, and was rewarded with a gusting sigh of pleasure. “Should I be flattered that you’re so worried about me, or is it just that you’ve come to guard your property?” He stroked the sinuous neck, smiling. “Ah, I know—you’ve come in the hope that I’ll provide you with an army of humans to bow down to you again.”
A new voice called out from high overhead. Pol glanced up and saw a little russet dragon glide over the crater to settle not fifty paces from Sioned. Elisel was twenty-one winters old, slow now on easily wearied wings. Her hide had lost some of its suppleness, and her gold underwings some of their luster, her eyes some of their sharpness. Pol watched, hardly breathing, as Elisel stretched out her long neck and crooned. Perhaps the dragon could do what humans could not. Perhaps Sioned would respond to her.
Azhdeen rumbled impatiently, drawing Pol’s full attention again. “What is it, my friend? If there’s something you want to tell me, please do it gently. I’m not as young as I was a few days ago.”
He felt the gathering of colors that flickered just out of his reach. Dragons were usually very careful after the first time of contact that left their fragile humans stunned unconscious by their power. Pol relaxed into the beginnings of communion—only to be thrust out of it by the cry of another dragon.
His head spun and he leaned heavily against Azhdeen’s neck. “Goddess,” he choked, “what happened?” The support was suddenly gone, and he stumbled into a thick shoulder, then down onto the ground.
Elidi was back, wings spread and talons extended as if she were another sire challenging Azhdeen to combat. Her tail lashed and she reached out to cuff the larger dragon, snarling at him. Azhdeen bore it with amazing aplomb; he neither hit back nor snapped, nor so much as growled. Elidi cried out again, with a pleading note in her voice this time. And all at once Pol understood. She had looked for Morwenna and had not found her. Now she was demanding that Azhdeen explain.
The implications throttled thought. All he could do was push himself to his feet and stand there gaping at the two dragons. When Azhdeen surrounded him in color and picture and emotion, he responded helplessly.
Morwenna. Stronghold. Fear. Sorrow. Rage. Fire. Death—
Each word called into his mind brought a flashing picture with it. Azhdeen released him and again he lost his footing. Blind and mute, he dug his fingers into gritty ash and cringed as Elidi screamed, mourning her dead.
“My lord? Can you hear?”
“Pol! Look at me!”
“Pol—oh, my lord, please—”
Somebody helped him upright; somebody else wrapped damp cold cloths around his hands. His knees wilted for a moment before he consciously locked them.
“Open your mouth and drink this.”
He recognized Feylin’s voice—Feylin, who was scared of dragons. He didn’t know whether to be amused that she’d conquered her fear to come to him—so close to a dragon—or alarmed that she’d felt it necessary.
Strong wine spilled down his throat, burning a path to his empty belly. He coughed and shook his head, staggering against the strong arm gripping his shoulders.
“There, that’s better,” Feylin said. Pol saw her then, a hazy outline that swiftly solidified in the late afternoon sun. “Talk to me,” she ordered.
“You’d like a speech?” he rasped. “Goddess! What in all Hells was that?”
“If you mean the wine, it’s a little something Kazander’s people brew from cactus juice. If you mean about the dragons—”
Turning his head, he saw that it was Kazander holding him steady. “My thanks to you—I think.” He ran his tongue around his teeth; his whole mouth felt burned.
A grin appeared below the black mustache. “Cures everything from battle wounds to a broken heart. Are you sound now, my lord? Can you walk?”
“Let’s not be too hasty.” He looked down at his hands. They had been bound in soft blue lace, for all the world like that of a lady’s undertunic.
“You cut your hands up pretty badly,” Feylin remarked, stoppering the wineskin and handing it back to Kazander.
“Ah—yes, I remember. What happened to the dragons?”
&n
bsp; “After Azhdeen backed up enough for us to get near and take care of you, he led them all off into the hills. Gone hunting, I suspect. They didn’t drink much, which means they didn’t want to get too water-heavy to fly. It’s a long way from the Catha Hills and they looked hungry.”
“I meant what happened with Elidi.”
“Morwenna’s little blue-gray? She flew south.”
“To Stronghold,” Pol murmured.
“Sioned’s dragon is still here.”
He followed her gesture to a most incredible sight. Sioned and Meath were walking slowly around the lake toward the keep, alone but for the dragon that kept quiet pace with them.
“Your Azhdeen called to her several times, but she wouldn’t leave Sioned’s side.” Feylin shrugged. “I hope the others bring something back for her. She looks exhausted, poor thing.”
“My lord? Pol?”
He glanced around and for the first time noticed his wife. If Feylin was afraid of dragons, Meiglan was terrified of them. Yet she too had come to him, and near Azhdeen. His heart turned over and he felt his throat tighten. She was pale and big-eyed and looked perhaps fifteen years old, her clothes rumpled where she had pulled the shirt from her belt. Belatedly he recognized the color and pattern of the lace that bandaged his hands.
“I’m perfectly all right, my darling,” he told her, and put his arms around her. “Don’t worry.”
“Azhdeen wouldn’t let us near you until Meiglan came with us,” Feylin said.
“One mighty dragon recognized the mate of the other,” Kazander added with a little bow. “Of course, her grace’s beauty is famed throughout the princedoms—why should not the dragons know of it, too?”
Pol laughed—and regretted it as the top of his head nearly came off.
“And there’s your dragon headache, right on schedule.” Feylin grinned. “Can you make it to the keep, or shall we carry you?”
“I’ll walk,” he said firmly. Meiglan got her shoulder under his arm and they started for the keep.
“Do you really think Azhdeen knows me?” she whispered.
“I’ve shown you to him often enough as my mate,” he teased, brushing a kiss to her hair. “You could probably pet him, next time we see him.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” she confessed. “Besides, he’s your dragon, Pol.”
“Not at all. I’m his human. And I have a suspicion that he includes you and the girls among his possessions. You’re my mate and they’re my hatchlings.” He saw Ruala coming toward them and lifted his free hand in greeting.
“Welcome, Princess Meiglan,” she said with a smile. Then, to Pol: “You certainly do know how to make an entrance, my lord. The Azhrei, complete with an escort of dragons.”
His vision began to blur again, and the pounding in his head took on a rhythm and intensity that reminded him of smashing glass ingots at Remagev. “Ruala,” he managed, “please—don’t call me that. . . .”
“Kazander!” Feylin’s voice came from very far away. “Catch him, he’s going to fall over!”
“No, I’m not,” Pol said, and then did just that.
Chapter Five
A warrior’s discipline was a valuable thing. Not because it made his commanders grovel before him (though it did) and not because it kept the many diverse clan-kin factions of his armies from each other’s throats (though it mostly did).
Discipline’s purest expression meant that he was obeyed without question.
Occasionally he wished in a secret portion of his mind for a dissenting voice, an intelligent objection—a whetstone against which he might hone his ideas. It was a vain hope. No one ever gainsaid him. Practically speaking, he would be compelled to slit the throat of any who did. In the absence of intellectual equals, he had learned to appreciate the subservience of smaller men with smaller minds. It was efficient. He was obeyed, even if at times he felt strangely lonely.
His father had taught him early to make certain no one approached him on a level more intimate than that of servant to master. There were distinctions of manner and bearing; he knew how to use the physical accoutrements of power and wealth. His clothing, though plainly cut, was of rich material and fine stitchery. The earring that swung close to his jaw was an uncut diamond the size of his thumbnail, bound in gold, with three faceted pendant rubies below. The wristlets reaching halfway to each elbow were no more elaborate in design than those of his senior commanders, but they were unmistakably made of gold, not mere brass kept well-polished.
His one deviation from his father’s teachings was in his sword. His position should have been indicated by a jewel-encrusted hilt and scabbard. But such a weapon would have been impractical in battle, and he was if nothing else an accomplished warrior. His blade was a plain one, and flawless.
He should also have worn a distinguishing badge at his shoulder and decorations on his helm to distinguish his lineage. But the first of his wives—a fiercely beautiful woman who bore him five sons before dying in childbed of the sixth—had told him that he must wear no clan-kin sign at all. “If you claim none, you may claim all,” she said, and he agreed.
This notion had impressed him. After she died, scant days before he sailed to war, he had acted on her wisdom. If he claimed none, he would claim all. And to claim everything—from leadership of his people to their very lives—was his right and intention.
So he did a simple thing. For any warrior, it was desecration; for the High Warlord of All Vellant’im, sacrilege. But the day before the priest begged for and received the Storm Father’s permission to sail, he had stood before his assembled armies and with his own sword in a steady hand committed the outrage.
Thus it was that alone of the entire Vellanti host, he wore no beard.
If he claimed no specific kills, he could claim them all.
Unfortunately, it worked the same way with battles. Present at none, he was responsible for all. Fortunately, his warriors didn’t see it that way.
The failure to secure Kierst-Isel was the fault of the commander there. The humiliations of Remagev and Lower Pyrme—both keeps rife with lethal deadfalls—were not laid to his account. The rout at Goddess Keep was blamed, quite rightly, on the evil spells of the Sunrunners. And as for Faolain Lowland, and the Fire-dragon that had scattered brave warriors like rice chaff before the wind. . . .
Ah, that one rankled. He must do something about that, and quickly. Dragons who appeared and vanished at command were more dangerous to discipline than the combined armies of all the princedoms.
His mind worked at the problem during the days and nights spent waiting for the flames at Stronghold to burn out. Mildly irked at first that he would not be able to quarter his men there and move his headquarters from Radzyn, he grew more and more angry after days of no perceptible change in the intensity of the blaze.
His commanders were growing nervous. He marveled in contempt that it had taken them this long to recognize that it was no ordinary fire, to consume every wooden rafter and tapestry cloth and seemingly even the mortar between the stones, and yet burn still.
Those ordered to brave the flames came back singed and terrified. They told of vines like scorched fingers scrabbling up walls, of gardens that grew food and gardens meant for pleasure that were seas of waist-high flame. They told of window glass that had shattered long since and melted to molten puddles. The furniture was nothing but blackened sticks. The very tiles on the floor of the Great Hall were awash in fire.
With great fear in their eyes, they told of the body lying near the stream, and how it, too, was shrouded in flame long after skin and flesh and even the larger bones had charred down to ash. Stronghold burned, though logic asserted that there was nothing left to burn.
He thought he detected a certain delicate hand—though his commanders would have gaped had he mentioned his belief that the Fire was hers. For the length of his life he had heard tales brought back by those who traveled to this wide land of Sunrunners and princes. Her beauty was praised, her intelligence resp
ected—and her power feared. The sight of her castle burning day after day didn’t surprise him. Indeed, he found it elegantly appropriate. There was a terrible beauty in the flames; their creation was the act of a highly intelligent mind; their power, even after five long days, was unabated.
He stood just outside his tent at dusk, watching Fire that consumed but did not die, and told himself it had to stop sometime. But when?
Summoning a guard with a flick of one finger, he ordered a mount saddled.
“I obey, my lord.” The man hesitated. “Does my lord wish a particular—”
“Any horse, and be quick about it.”
“I obey, my lord.”
He sighed. Immediately as his commands were carried out, he did grow weary of having to do all the thinking. Even when questions were ventured, they were always stupid ones. What did it matter which horse he rode?
Even so, he knew very well that had the guard asked an intelligent question—where he planned to go, or why—the presumption would have cost him his tongue. The guard knew it, too. They all did.
• • •
In a way, Ruala was glad that every chair in her solar was occupied. If for one instant she allowed something other than her own legs to support her, she wouldn’t stand up again for three days. Possibly four.
The highborns of eight princedoms had gathered here. Maarken and Walvis and Kazander of the Desert; Chadric and Audrite of Dorval; Daniv, so recently become ruling Prince of Syr; Sethric, who was Velden of Grib’s nephew; Dannar and Jeni of Castle Crag, her husband Riyan’s half-siblings; Isriam, heir to Fessenden’s great port of Einar; Kierun of Lower Pyrme in Gilad; and Meiglan, daughter of Miyon of Cunaxa. Skybowl had never seen so much distinguished company. Watching from the doorway as the squires served taze and the last of the fresh fruit, Ruala could have sworn they were all simply guesting here, not sheltering from an invading army.
But as their conversations took on meaning in her tired mind, she heard things that meant war and danger and strategy, things alien to this quiet, pleasant room.