The Dragon Token

by Melanie Rawn

  “Just keep scrubbing until you get down to something that looks like my daughters,” he advised. “I’ll go beg a basin and washcloth from Ruala—”

  “A dunk in a horse trough would be better,” Jihan observed, then yelped as he turned her upside down over his shoulder. “Papa!”

  “Insolent monster! Apologize to your prince at once!”

  “Won’t!”

  “Meggie, there’s no need to wash this one. It’s a princess, all right. And arrogant with it, too. I think that horse trough is an excellent idea.”

  “Papa! You wouldn’t!”

  “Oh, wouldn’t I?”

  But she attacked the vulnerable spot just below his last rib, and he had to set her down before he laughed so hard he dropped her.

  Leaving his ladies in possession of the bathroom, he returned to the main chamber. The Desert beckoned—he supposed it always would, especially now that it was his. Vast, beautiful, and merciless, it had betrayed Rohan just as Maarken had said. Sunrunners, soldiers, and sand had all failed him.

  Pol sat down in a window embrasure, one foot tucked under him. Beyond the Desert was the sea, and beyond that . . . who knew? No one had ever gone looking—or at least no one had come back. He’d wondered about that when he was younger, when he and Meath had ridden the northern coast of Dorval where the Sunrise Water stretched into infinity. From there—from anyplace—a Sunrunner might ride the light all the way around the world, or so it had seemed to Pol.

  “Would you, indeed?” Meath asked, amused. “And how would you get back?”

  “Easy—right back around to the place . . . where . . . I. . . .” He faltered to a stop. “Oh.”

  “Exactly. If you start out on sunlight, what happens when you get to the line of dusk between day and night? At the very least, you’d have to try switching sources of light from sun to moons—not something I’d care to try, myself.”

  “You could go the other way around—follow the sunrise instead of the sunset.”

  “And just how long do you think a Sunrunner can work without getting tired, anyway?”

  “Not that long, I guess. Wait—you could use the moons! If it was a day when they rise while the sun’s still up, you could follow them and use the same light the whole time!”

  “Interesting thought. Of course, there’s also the slight problem of your thoughts being in one place and your body in another while the sun sets.”

  Pol gulped. “Everybody’s already thought of all this, haven’t they?” he asked, subdued now.

  “If you mean that you’re not as brilliantly innovative as you thought you were—” Meath laughed. “A revelation common to all of us, not just princes. Feeling stupid after you realize it is very good for you.”

  “But following light all the way around the world—it’s been tried, hasn’t it?”

  “Once.”

  The ships of the coastal princedoms stayed within sight of land, except for those that sailed Brochwell Bay. But that didn’t signify, for in order to get out of the bay, one must pass between Einar and Isel in the north or Kierst and Goddess Keep in the south. It was impossible to get lost, even when land vanished over the horizon. Hugging the shoreline obviously didn’t figure in Vellanti seamanship. How in Hells did they do it?

  Sunrunners would make great navigators—if they could stomach being on water. We’re limited to the continent, Pol thought, and a few measures beyond. Then, his gaze focusing once more on the Desert sky: But they’re limited to the ground. The sunlight and the moonlight belong to us.

  Or were the Vellant’im so limited? If there were sorcerers in their ranks . . . diarmadh’im didn’t get seasick. Was that how they did it? Were some of them able to use the sun and moons and stars in guiding the ships? It was not an answer that satisfied him. If sorcery was part of their armament, why had no spells been tried?

  Who were these people? Where had they come from? What did they want?

  He gave a start at a soft caress on his neck. “Your hair’s gotten so long,” Meiglan said behind him as she unknotted the scrap of leather thong that bound it at his nape. “And the sun’s turned it almost the same color as mine. Does it get in your way? Shall I trim it?”

  “I’ll have Kierun or Dannar take care of it tomorrow. Where are the girls?”

  “Getting dressed.” She finger-combed his hair, gently teasing the snarls from it with her nails.

  “Do they seem all right to you?”

  Her fingers stilled, resting on his shoulders. “Rislyn’s been quiet, but she usually is. Jihan’s been noisy—also as usual.”

  He shrugged; misunderstanding the gesture, she removed her hands. He missed the gentle warmth. Turning in the window seat, he began, “After what happened at Stronghold. . . .” Her eyes, liquid-dark and innocent as a fawn’s, changed what he had been about to say. “The battle, Father’s death—just keep an eye on them, Meggie. If they seem upset or worried, that kind of thing.”

  She nodded, once more brushing strands of lank, dirty hair from his brow.

  Maara, Riyan and Ruala’s daughter, came by then to collect the twins. There was to be a children’s dinner in her rooms, mimicking the grown-up meal down below in the hall.

  “You’ll have much more fun than we will in a stuffy old banquet packed in with hundreds of people,” Pol said as he retied Jihan’s sash. “Can I join you?”

  “This is just for us, Papa,” Jihan replied, every bit the princess guesting in an athri’s holding. Maara, he noted with an inner smile, was equally the lady of the castle. At eight winters old—barely two seasons older than the twins—brown-eyed Maara had shown herself her grandmother Camigwen’s worthy heir. She had taken charge of the children from Graypearl, organizing games, settling quarrels, and reporting to her mother on their needs and doings. Now she escorted the two princesses to her own special banquet with all the graciousness of someone thrice her age. Maara was in complete and elegant control of her little world.

  Pol wished he could be as lucky. He lolled back in the bath—a fresh one, his sand-sodden daughters having done their work on the first—listening to the faint sounds of drawers and hangers as Meiglan unpacked their scant belongings. Above him, the vaulted ceiling to the bathtub alcove was a dark blue canopy playfully strewn with flecks of silver. He was alone with the painted stars.

  When Meiglan came in with clean clothes—Riyan’s, sent by a servant—Pol asked, “Meggie . . . what gives them the right?”

  She turned from folding a shirt onto the sink counter. “Who, my lord?”

  “The Vellant’im. They’re destroying our world and we don’t even know why.”

  “They won’t destroy it. You won’t let them.”

  “They already have. You and I ought to be at Dragon’s Rest watching the snow fall.”

  “That world isn’t lost, Pol.” She sat on the edge of the tub and dipped a wedge of shaving soap into the water, rubbing it into lather. “We can go back.”

  “Can we? It’ll never be the same. They’re killing our world. What if I can’t stop them? What if nothing I do is enough?”

  Meiglan was quiet and still but for her quick, nervous fingers. All at once she whispered, “There’s nothing you can’t do. Please don’t talk this way.”

  She had always believed in him, always trusted that everything he said and did was exactly right. If mistakes were made it was because other people had said or done the wrong things. No one else had ever looked at him with such simple, enduring faith.

  “I’m sorry, love. I shouldn’t be saying these things, especially to you. You have so much else to worry about.” He shook water from his hair. “It’s that damned ceiling—all those stars hanging up there like answers I can’t reach.”

  She gave him a little smile. “They’ll jump down from the sky into your hands, just as in that song Lord Kazander sings.”

  He swept a finger through the soap lather and daubed bubbles on her nose, chuckling. “Do you know when I love you best, Meggie? Besides when we�
�re in bed, that is,” he added, to make her blush. “It’s when you’re standing in front of your fenath, and your hands are like birds fluttering over the strings, picking each note so delicately and quickly I can barely follow. Sometimes I’m selfish enough to be jealous that other people are listening when you play.”

  Meiglan blinked her surprise. “Pol—I play only for you. To hear you sing.”

  “Do you, love? Do you forgive me that the music’s gone?”

  Now she looked shocked. “It’s not your fault! Don’t ever think any of this is your fault!”

  It was exactly the opposite of what he’d been taught all his life—that as High Prince, everything was his responsibility and his fault—but Meiglan didn’t see him as the High Prince. He was her husband, her lover, the father of her children. With remorse stabbing him, he realized he hadn’t been any of those things for a long time now.

  And the living Hell of it was that husband, lover, and father was all he really wanted to be. He wasn’t like Rohan. He didn’t want to rule—not if it meant this kind of life.

  And yet he was becoming very good at war. He was coming to enjoy it.

  “Goddess, how I want to go home,” he whispered. “Forgive me, Meggie. I know you do, too. I shouldn’t even talk about it. I just—I need to remember, sometimes. That we had a life before all this. That the world wasn’t always like this.”

  She was quiet for a long time, quiet and still. “Pol . . . my world is you, and the life you made for us. When you weren’t there—” A small tremor ran through her. “I don’t know anything about armies or castles at war or tending the wounded. I’m no use here. All I can do is stay out of everyone’s way. But I’ll try to do better, to help you. I’m High Princess now,” she finished, sounding as if she said it to convince herself and had little hope of succeeding.

  Churl! he accused himself. Complaining to her when she’s afraid and won’t admit it because it would worry me. At least I was brought up to be High Prince from the day I was born. If it’s not the way I pictured it, that’s my problem—not hers. She’s got more courage than I do.

  He made himself smile. “So you are. And a fine, proud, beautiful High Princess you make—with only one slight flaw. You will forgive me for observing that your grace is absolutely filthy and needs a good scrubbing.”

  “After you’re done here, I’ll—Pol!” she squealed, laughing as he pulled her into the tub with him, fully clothed.

  • • •

  Walvis stood alone on the lakeshore, watching moonlight dance across the water. A hundred million fragments of shifting brightness, there and gone and there again: a great liquid mirror, shattered. Pol had spoken in the Court of the Storm God, his words remembering Rohan for them all. There had been another ritual here the night after they arrived. Ruala, as Lady of Skybowl, had brought her people down to the lake as was the custom, and they had stood silent vigil until midnight, leaving their candles embedded in the sand. But now it was just Walvis, alone with his own remembering amid hundreds of candles, as dead and burned as Rohan at Stronghold.

  He didn’t want to think of that. He wanted to see his prince as he had seen and served him for forty years. Ever since a rather ragged, definitely unlettered boy had caught the attention of the Desert’s heir.

  It had been during a hunting party organized by Lord Chaynal—bored by the second spring in a row of peace, with no Merida to fight and no Rialla that year to distract him. Prince Rohan, barely twenty, hadn’t even been visible next to the Lord of Radzyn’s powerful presence as they rode through the village where Walvis’ father was nominal athri. So amazed was a twelve-year-old boy at the sight of the great lord and his companions that he hadn’t even noticed when someone trying to get a better view jostled him out into the road. He nearly dropped the full wine cup his father had urged into his hands to be presented for Lord Chaynal’s refreshment, hoping, of course, that he would be remarked on and favored. The next thing he knew, a huge bay stallion was sidestepping him, snorting annoyance.

  “Here, now,” warned an amused voice above him, “watch what you’re about, my lad. I realize the mighty Lord of Radzyn is a man to behold, but have a care to yourself all the same.”

  “Your pardon,” Walvis replied, still unable to take his eyes from the splendid Battle Commander.

  “Might I have a sip of that, by the way? It’s been a long, dusty ride, and I could do with something besides water.”

  “I’m sorry, but my father bade me give this to Lord Chaynal himself.” He glanced down, angry to see that half the fine Giladan red had sloshed out.

  “Ah. Well, then. Chay!” he shouted, and the tall man turned in his saddle.

  “My prince?”

  “This boy here is waiting to give you a drink! Hurry up before he gets trampled!”

  “My prince?” Walvis’ gaze traveled up the stallion’s shoulder to a fine saddle, gloved hands easy on the reins, strong arms in a white silk shirt, and a smiling face crowned only by sunlight shining on blond hair.

  Goddess help him, he had insulted Prince Rohan. His father would have his hide.

  But the young heir did not look insulted. As Lord Chaynal made his way to them, Prince Rohan asked, “What’s your name? Wait—you wouldn’t be Risnaya’s boy, would you?”

  “Yes—Walvis, your grace. I’m sorry, your grace. I didn’t—”

  “—recognize me, or even see me, for that matter, next to the glory of my sister’s husband.” He was actually grinning. “Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.”

  Belatedly, Walvis proffered the cup. “Please, your grace. It’s good wine, my father keeps it for special occasions.”

  “No, you brought it for Chay—and it’s half empty.” The prince winked. “Once you give it to him, can you run get me a full one?”

  He couldn’t help but grin back. “Immediately, your grace!”

  And that had been all. A stumble nearly under his horse’s feet, ignoring him in favor of Chay, a brimming wine cup (and a gracious thanks, with another wink), and they had ridden away on the hunt. Walvis had hoped they’d return by the same road so he could make amends for his mistake. But the next he heard of Prince Rohan was that summer, when a letter came asking his father if the boy could be spared to become a page at Stronghold.

  Forty years. What had Rohan seen in him to make him remember Walvis with favor? Walvis was under no illusion that this summoning was only a princely whim. But why him? Poor, uneducated, barely able to read (although he had been the one to sound out the letter, for Risnaya could read nothing but his own name)—still Rohan had glimpsed something in him of value. Something worth taking the trouble to nurture.

  Whatever it had been, Walvis had tried not to disappoint him. From page to squire to knight to Lord of Remagev, he had served his prince, fought for him and beside him, loved him—and now, in the shattered moonlight, he wept for him.

  • • •

  Cleanly clad in Riyan’s clothes, Pol also took Riyan’s chair at the high table. Ruala insisted on it, and also that Meiglan take the place that was usually hers as Lady of Feruche. But the new High Princess chose instead to sit on Pol’s left—and called Betheyn over to take the chair at his right.

  It was kindly meant. Pol remembered that this had been Sorin’s table; had he lived, Beth would have presided here as his wife. Perhaps it was Meiglan’s way of thanking her, or of reminding those at Feruche whose Lady she might have been. Mainly it impressed the ever-fractious Dorvali merchants, for whom Beth, along with Isriam, had taken responsibility.

  The Dorvali were here because Skybowl wasn’t big enough. Pol had no intention of keeping them at Feruche, either—though accommodations were much more spacious, and provisions, thanks to Ruala’s foresight in sending to Elktrap, were plentiful.

  Trouble was, they might get used to this. Feruche was so obviously big and strong that the war might seem very far away. He mentioned as much to Beth over the haunch of venison—cooked to perfection and more than welcome after
days of marching rations—and she nodded.

  “We’ll have to convince them otherwise. Getting them out of Skybowl wasn’t much of a problem. Getting them out of Feruche. . . .” She shrugged. “Where can we send them?”

  “I know just the place.” Pol turned to his wife. “Meggie, I forgot to ask earlier—did you happen to talk to Master Nemthe’s daughters on the way here?”

  “Yesterday, my lord,” A little smile played over her lips. “Just as you asked. They were rather nice, after they got over the fact that it was me.” She gave a little shrug of bemusement that anyone would think her formidable.

  “Oh, yes,” he teased, “I’m sure they chat with princesses all the time.” To Betheyn, he went on, “By now they’ll have told their parents that they were honored with the High Princess’ confidence.” Plucking up Meiglan’s free hand, he kissed the palm. “Were you properly nervous and fearful, my love, when you mentioned Chaldona and how much you’d rather be there than here?”

  Ruala, seated on Meiglan’s other side, laughed quietly. “Pol, you have no shame. Setting her to do your work for you!”

  “Mind your chiding, my lady. I heard what you did to Master Nemthe,” he retorted with a grin.

  “But not so well that he didn’t scruple to leave a tally sheet behind for Maarken and Hollis to find. As if he’d been summing up his losses, and ‘forgot’ it in his hurry to vacate the room,” she snorted.

  Beth was frowning her confusion. “Chaldona? I don’t know it. What’s there that these people would want?”

  “Safety,” Pol said succinctly.

  Ruala leaned forward and explained, “It’s a way station on the road through the Veresch, and very appropriately named—in a valley between cliffs. Every spring the mountain folk come to trade and gossip and enjoy themselves. It’s a bit like the Rialla Fair, only smaller and more fun.”

  “And Chaldona can provide for more than three hundred Dorvali?”

  “Three times that number descend on it every year, and stay in the guest houses.”