The Dragon Token

by Melanie Rawn

  “Clever of you to spread the notion that it’s for their own peace of mind. That they’ll feel better with walls around them during an attack.”

  “We can’t tell them the truth, can we?” And the truth was that even with the new devr’im quickly trained to replace Oclel and Rusina, they had not been able to, extend the ros’salath much beyond the keep itself. “Ah, there she is,” Andry said, pointing to the tall white figure now mounting a horse.

  “I do hope she doesn’t fall off. So detrimental to the dignity.”

  “Why don’t you go down and help? I’m sure everyone would benefit from your advice—as I regularly do,” he added with sarcasm to match hers.

  “My Lord is too kind. He is also too obvious in wanting to be rid of me.” Valeda eyed his lame leg again. “You won’t be able to use it for a whole day after standing on it so long, you know.”

  He ignored her, and after another few moments she went away. When he heard the last of her footsteps on the stone stairs, he immediately took his weight from his bad leg. Valeda was right; tomorrow he’d be too sore and stiff to walk. But it wasn’t necessary to walk. Only to ride.

  Andry leaned his elbows on the stones, watching the chaos below him resolve into order at Jayachin’s commands. An efficient woman, that one; a born leader. When all this was over, he’d have to secure a position for her more worthy of her talents than running a merchant house in Waes. If Pol could make Rialt a lord regent, surely Andry could reward similar ability in similar fashion. He’d take it up with his cousin when he saw him.

  But Jayachin would not become athri of a new town around Goddess Keep. Andry wanted these people gone as soon as possible. His eyes were offended by the crush of tents and shelters; his nose objected to the inevitable stink of inadequate sanitation; his ears ached with the noise of adult arguments and children’s squabbles and screeching babies. The area and the sensibilities of those in Goddess Keep simply could not support a permanent presence.

  Still, Jayachin had done remarkably well in controlling the thousands of people now filing into the castle yard. She was readily visible on horseback, her white cloak blowing back over the haunches of her gray Radzyn mare—each a gift from him, at her suggestion. The color had become the Goddess’ symbol; possession of a fine horse had always indicated wealth and power. All she lacked, Andry thought in amusement, was a silver breastplate and a jeweled sword and she would be the embodiment of the White Swan, whose personal name had been lost to history. He had never understood why. Lady Merisel had known her, mentioned her often in the scrolls.

  The White Swan had led armies of Sunrunners and their allies to victory over the diarmadh’im before perishing in the final battle. Andry had always thought that her death was a little too neat, which made him suspect that she might not have been real at all. All good symbolic figures died at a properly symbolic time. But perhaps the White Swan had been all too real, and all too much competition for Lady Merisel. From the tone of her histories, Andry had long since learned that her talents had not included the ability to share, and among her virtues modesty was not featured.

  Jayachin rode through the gates right on schedule, and moments later Nialdan blew a second blast from the horn. There were stragglers left outside the walls. This exercise would teach them the wisdom of haste. Andry raised both arms, drawing their eyes, and called Fire around the perimeter of the keep. He let it flare dragon-high as the tardy ones approached. A moment later Ulwis took it over for him, working from a window high in the tower. This way, he could see to his next task while seeming powerful enough to maintain Fire.

  Symbols and deceptions, he told himself as he limped down the stairs. Useful and necessary. But what happened when symbols deceived?

  He rested for a moment in the stairwell, out of the chill wind, and constructed once more in his mind the symbology of his dreams. Radzyn destroyed, the hatchling dragon killed. But Radzyn stood. It had not been a hatchling that flew over the port, but a gigantic sire. The Vellant’im had groveled on their faces at the sight of him.

  Brenlis had been able to see the future as it would be, carved in stone. Andry’s dreams were only possibilities, like conjurings in Fire and Water at the tree circle. What he saw was mutable, written in sand. He had changed things by his actions: forming the devr’im, eradicating as many sorcerers as he could. But would those changes make things better or worse?

  Andry had decided that Radzyn had been the symbol of his fear. In his dream, his home and family and all his ties to the Desert had been obliterated. He saw now that sending his daughter Tobren to live at Whitecliff had been an act of defiance, a challenge to his fear.

  Radzyn stood. The bonds remained. Perhaps Tobren’s presence had been the catalyst of the change; he only knew that in her way she had become a symbol, too, of his unbroken connection to his home.

  As for the young dragon—so obviously explained, so difficult to admit that dark and terrible insight into his own heart. It was only because Pol still lived that Andry had recognized his cousin’s place in that dream.

  And it had been Pol’s dragon that had made the enemy bow into the dirt. This was a symbol he didn’t much care for.

  His thoughts turned to Lady Merisel’s brisk text, and he was comforted into a slight smile.

  I dreamed one night of serving a banquet of lobster from the isle of Pimanji. There was no mistaking the size and shape of the creatures. The cooks had wrapped them in silk soaked in spices that blackened over the coals, according to my favorite recipe. I took this to mean that my Lord Rosseyn had known success there and would send me the delicacies as a gift, knowing my fondness for them.

  As it happened, the very next day I discovered a diarmadhi from that island in our midst. We wrapped her in silk soaked with fragrant spice-oils to disguise the stench as we burned her alive.

  Symbols mean what you choose to believe they mean.

  What Andry chose was to believe that Radzyn’s survival meant he was still tied to the Desert. It was still the home of his ancestors; he still had a right and duty to defend it. As for the dragon . . . who knew what the great beasts symbolized to the Vellant’im? Andry was responsible for his own dreams, not the superstitions of barbarians. Until he discovered reasons for their ridiculous reaction, he’d reserve interpretation.

  When he reached the courtyard, he gestured and the gates were opened again. He made his way through the crowd and walked a few paces outside, careful not to limp. Stragglers caught beyond the Fire huddled in little groups and gazed at sanctuary with longing, defiant, or fearful eyes. Raising both arms again, knowing Ulwis would see the signal, he watched the Fire fade into the ground. A few people rushed forward; some hung back, wary of him.

  Andry smiled. “Come on, then,” he urged. “You’ll be quicker next time, I know.”

  Reproved by Sunrunner’s Fire, reassured by the Sunrunner Lord’s gentleness, they sought the safety Andry provided. When they were all inside, he paused at the gates to provide an impression of him standing between them and the Vellanti army they were imagining outside. Then he smiled once more and started for the steps of the keep, for they didn’t need him to supervise their return to their makeshift town. They parted for him, murmuring thanks and reverence.

  They also parted for the woman on a gray horse. Jayachin rode over to him and bowed from her saddle.

  “Were you satisfied, my Lord?”

  “Quite,” he responded, hiding annoyance that he had to look up at her.

  “Perhaps next time should be after dark, my Lord,” she suggested.

  Oh, fine, he thought, that’s all I need—blasted from my bed in the middle of the night. And all these people need as well, unable to sleep for wondering if they’ll be put through this again in pitch blackness. You foolish woman, can’t you see you’ve just undone all the good this accomplished?

  He smiled. “I don’t think that’s necessary. I doubt the enemy will wish to stumble about. After all, we are the ones with Fire to light the midnight.
” Nodding pleasantly, he turned from her and saw Valeda nearby. The Sunrunner didn’t bother to hide her grin.

  “As you wish, my Lord,” Jayachin called after him.

  Andry considered, then swung around again. He had put her in a position of authority for his own convenience; her lapse should not be allowed to ruin it. Having nicely reasserted his dominance, he could afford to be gracious.

  “Will you be so good as to dine with me tonight in my chambers? Perhaps we can refine this procedure for the safety of all concerned.”

  She bowed again. Valeda caught up with him on the stairs, climbing with him to the relative quiet of the next floor. She was no longer smiling.

  “That was a piece of idiocy,” she snapped. “Make her your athri if you must, but don’t behave as if you’re courting her!”

  Andry gave her a sidelong glance. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Dinner in your chambers tonight? Gifts? What else does it look like?”

  Knowing he shouldn’t, he laughed anyway. “Valeda! You’re jealous!”

  “Andry, you’re a fool!” She stormed back downstairs, leaving him with a wide grin on his face and an interesting notion in his mind.

  • • •

  Six days earlier, on the very morning that Idalian had decided he’d had enough of isolation, ignorance, chess, and even Tirel, Lord Yarin himself arrived at their anteroom door, positively beaming.

  “Excellent news! My physician assures me that all danger of illness is past. You boys are free to come and go as you like.” He smiled, dark eyes glinting with some secret glee that set Idalian’s spine itching. “It must have been very tiresome for you, stuck in here all these days with a little boy.”

  Firmly forgetting Tirel’s sulks and tantrums, he replied, “Not at all, my lord. The prince is an enjoyable companion.”

  “Of course. But you must be missing friends your own age. And believe me, ladies of all ages have missed your charming face around the castle.” The smile widened. “Oh, to be your age again, young and strong and handsome!”

  Idalian said nothing. Yarin took it for abashed modesty; it was really an inner struggle to overcome the need to throttle this smug traitor.

  He was also trying to figure out what in all Hells the man was up to. What had gained them their freedom and put that grin on the man’s face? Sudden panic threatened the young man’s composure. In here, he could keep Tirel safe. Out in the halls of the castle—

  “Idalian!” the boy called from the main room. “Who is it?”

  “Lord Yarin is here to see us,” he responded. “Won’t you come in and sit with us, my lord?”

  “Not just now. So many things to be done in keeping Firon safe and contented.”

  I can imagine, Idalian thought bitterly.

  Yarin’s gaze darted around the little chamber. “How you must also be spoiling for some honest exercise! Caged in here for so long, unable to practice at arms—” He did a passable imitation of a man suddenly struck by an idea. “Do you know, Idalian, a young kinsman of mine is newly arrived from Snowcoves. I’d wager he could learn a great deal from your proficiency at arms. Would you be willing to teach him?”

  The squire blinked. He knew how to use sword, knife, and bow, but was no expert at any of them. And said so.

  “Come, you’re too shy about your accomplishments.” The smile was not so sleek now. “You would be doing me a favor.”

  “I—of course, my lord,” Idalian said swiftly, understanding at last that this was the condition of his release—and Tirel’s.

  “Fine, fine.” Yarin gestured with one well-kept hand. “Aldiar? Come in, boy, come in.”

  A tall, thin-limbed youth of about fifteen winters slunk through the door. Aldiar had the biggest black eyes Idalian had ever seen, all the larger for the hollow cheeks below them. There was no resemblance to Yarin at all, but the jawline—slightly wider on one side than the other—was reminiscent of Tirel and his mother. What was charming in Lisiel and would be interesting in Tirel when he was grown was simply off-kilter in this boy.

  “This is Idalian of Faolain—forgive me, but I can never recall which Faolain you’re from.”

  “Riverport, my lord,” Idalian said quietly.

  “Oh, of course. A great pity it was destroyed in this terrible war. Nothing to do with our part of the continent, but a terrible thing all the same. Aldiar comes from the mountain branch of our family.”

  Black hair spilled down a high forehead as the boy bowed low. “My father’s mother’s cousin was sister to my lord Yarin’s mother’s uncle’s—”

  “Yes, yes,” came the hasty interruption. “It’s all as convoluted as the bloodlines of the princes—and the Sunrunners. Well, Idalian, is there anything here you can work with?” The smile was back.

  The squire answered politely. “I’m sure Aldiar will be an apt pupil. Height and a long reach are good beginnings.”

  “Really?” The dark face flushed with pleasure. “I hope so. I already know a little about knives, and I can bring down a doe at two hundred paces with a single arrow, and—”

  “I’ll leave you to your martial discussions,” Yarin said. “Idalian, I’ll expect to hear that Tirel is back at his regular lessons this morning.”

  Unwisely, he protested, “But Arpali was his teacher, and she—”

  “Natham’s tutor is also here from Snowcoves,” said the regent. “I sent for him so that neither my son nor my nephew would suffer in their education, what with your Sunrunner dead.”

  He understood now. Aldiar would keep him busy and under watch; Natham and the tutor would do the same for Tirel. A ten-year-old boy and a teacher were unlikely assassins—but was Aldiar, already proficient with a bow, meant to kill Idalian in an “accident”?

  The boy was watching him. “Will you show me first how to use a knife?”

  Now, many days later and facing Aldiar across a snowy practice yard, Idalian looked at midnight eyes set in a thin, dark face, and wondered again if he saw his executioner.

  One, moreover, that he himself was teaching how to do it.

  Neither thought made his tutelage a gentle one.

  A few stable boys and men-at-arms paused in their duties to watch. The former were Laric’s; the latter, Yarin’s. It was emblematic of the situation at Balarat these days, but oddly the reverse of what was happening now. For the moment, Idalian was the elder and stronger, and Yarin’s kinsman the victim.

  He came in low and fast, knife angled for the boy’s ribs. Aldiar’s backbone curved awkwardly as he shrank from the thrust. Off-balance, he staggered and would have gone down but for Idalian’s hand snatching his wrist, spinning him into an armlock.

  There was scattered applause for the tidiness of the move. Idalian ignored it. With his blade at Aldiar’s throat, he wrenched the captive arm tighter and said, “Stop trying to stand your ground. Step back if you need to. Give as you must—you can take it back later.”

  “I thought this was a lesson in knife-fighting, not philosophy,” the boy panted, twisting his neck as he tried to see Idalian’s face.

  The words puzzled him, but then he shrugged. “It’s always better to yield ground than fall all over yourself trying to keep it.” Releasing Aldiar, he stood back and observed, “At least you hung onto your knife. That’s something, anyway.”

  “Show me how you’d do it,” he challenged.

  “Not today.” Tirel had been out of his sight now for a whole morning, and he could feel the familiar tension building. He still slept on a cot in the prince’s chamber, so at least he could give his protection by night. But though the winter days were short, he spent too much of them away from his charge. Too much time for mischief to occur, with Yarin’s mournful explanation of a tragic accident following close after.

  “Why are you so worried about him?” Aldiar asked suddenly. “You’re not his mother.”

  Idalian swung around, cursing himself for allowing his gaze to stray up to the schoolroom window. “Why do you say that?” he
demanded, knowing he should not have spoken at all.

  “I have to pry you away from his side for my lessons,” Aldiar complained. “You won’t go out riding unless it’s with Tirel, you stay with him every moment you can. Do you expect danger to him here in his own castle?”

  “Yes,” he replied bluntly, saw the black eyes go even wider, then thought quickly. “You heard what happened at my home. One of the enemy walked right into the residence, disguised as a merchant. And the few survivors of Gilad Seahold talked of a young juggler who led them a chase up the ramparts and flung a torch from the walls—it had to have been a signal of some kind. What makes you think Balarat is any more secure?”

  “Oh.” Aldiar raked his hair back, shaking his head as it flopped into his eyes again. “What you mean is that Fironese are all dark, just about like these barbarians. It’d be hard to tell us apart, wouldn’t it?”

  “You said it, I didn’t,” Idalian snapped.

  “But it would be easy to mistake one for the other,” he insisted. “And you don’t trust any of us, do you?”

  Idalian sheathed his knife. “I’m going back upstairs. It’s too cold out here.”

  “There’s no need to worry,” Aldiar said. “Truly.”

  “You think I’m a fool for it—but if anything happens to Prince Tirel—”

  “It won’t.” Flatly. “I give you my word.”

  Idalian laughed aloud. “Oh, and that makes me feel so much better!”

  Dark skin flushed with anger, the boy moved closer to him and hissed, “You think you understand, but you don’t. Not anything!”

  “Would you care to explain it to me of your infinite wisdom?”

  “Maybe. Someday when I’m sure you can be trusted!” And with that he stalked off, the knife still gleaming in his hand.

  • • •

  It was a good wine, rich and full-bodied, the very last of the prized vintage of 732. That year, Ossetian wine makers had crushed cask after cask so exquisitely that Sioned had sworn the Goddess herself had had something to do with it. Nothing could be that perfect without divine intervention.