The Dragon Token

by Melanie Rawn

  Naydra stared at him. She had never seen a sorcerer—that she knew of—but they were said to almost always be Fironese in appearance, reflecting their exile to the Veresch and the mingling of their blood with that of the mountain folk. This young man was fair, with blue eyes and reddish-blond curls and a pale complexion. He didn’t look like a madman. But he babbled complete nonsense.

  “My name is Branig,” he said. “I am the latest of those who have watched Swalekeep—for Princess Chiana’s safety, although she wouldn’t see it that way,” he added with a little smile. “After what happened nine years ago, we decided that certain persons might be vulnerable to their own ambitions, and need guarding against—”

  “We?” She clutched the arms of her chair. “Who are you? What do you mean?”

  Branig sighed. “This will take time, which we don’t really have. Not all of us side with Mireva, who challenged Prince Pol. Your mother was their hope. You may very well be ours.”

  “My mother?” Naydra shook her head weakly. “What are you talking about?”

  “May I explain, Diarmadh’reia? May I tell you what you are?”

  “Stop calling me that!” she cried. “‘Princess of sorcerers!’”

  “No. A princess who is a sorcerer.”

  “I’m not! Get out! I want nothing to do with your wickedness!”

  “Mireva’s clan-kin have much to answer for,” Branig muttered.

  “This war is your doing! The enemy use the very name as their battle cry!”

  “I can’t help that. I don’t know why they do it. I don’t even know who they are! What I do know is that they must be defeated. And to do that, I need you.”

  Naydra pushed herself to her feet and backed away from him. “If I cry out, guards will come—”

  “I know. Am I so stupid that I would risk coming here if it were not vital?” Urgency was in his pale eyes, his extended hands. “Listen to me. Lady Cluthine is dead. Lord Rialt and Lady Mevita are in custody by Chiana’s order. She works with the enemy, and Lady Aurar is her courier, as traitorous as she and for the same reason: desire for a princedom.” He came forward. Tall and inexorable, he reminded her frighteningly of her father.

  But his voice was soft, almost pleading, and there was need in his eyes as he said, “Diarmadh’reia, you must believe me. You can no longer ignore what you are—and we can no longer let you.”

  Her mind reeled. Cluthine dead, Rialt and Mevita in prison? This could not be happening. She knew he must be insane.

  She suspected suddenly that she was, too, when she heard herself say, “Sit down, Branig, and tell me what you think I am.”

  • • •

  “Pol—”

  He jerked upright in his saddle. The late afternoon sunshine was warm, oddly soft for winter, and the steady rhythm of hooves had nearly lulled him to sleep. “What? What is it? More Merida?”

  “No, of course not.” Riyan sounded amused. “I was just thinking about what you said. Using the Desert. Did you have anything in mind?”

  Pol’s turn to smile. So that’s what he’s been chewing over, he thought. Riyan had been silent ever since starting for Feruche. Pol had waited him out through fifty measures of sand, stone, and occasional salt flats with a patience possible only because a battle had been won. Not the most important one, but at least the taint of defeat was scoured from his tongue. He was no longer in such a hurry—even though he’d decided to ride ahead with an escort of cavalry and the three Cunaxan brothers. That they were Meiglan’s brothers was something he didn’t think about too much.

  “Sand, dragons, gold,” he mused. They rode at the head of the column, out of earshot, or he would never have mentioned that last. “Interesting weapons.”

  “Very,” Riyan agreed. “We’ve seen what creative use of the terrain can accomplish. I doubt you could buy off the Vellant’im, so I can’t see what good the gold can do us. But they are scared of dragons.”

  “One of them isn’t.” And Pol explained how Elidi had behaved at Skybowl—and what had happened to her at Stronghold as reported by a horrified Meath the next morning. “When I took a look for myself, they were yanking out her talons and teeth—keepsakes, I suppose,” he finished bitterly.

  “Poor little thing,” Riyan murmured. “You see the implications.”

  “I’ve been too angry to think much about it,” he admitted. “But I’ll find whoever did it, Riyan. Find him and butcher him the way he did her.”

  “But do you know what this means?” he insisted. “Dragons talk with each other. There’s proof now. You say Azhdeen talked to you—” He interrupted himself with a sigh. “We have to find a better word for it one of these days.”

  “It does tend to give the wrong impression,” Pol agreed. “Go on.”

  “Elidi got the information from Azhdeen and flew off to Stronghold. That’s important. But what’s really intriguing is that dragons care about their humans. They’re indifferent parents to their own offspring. They share rearing among all adult dragons. But they care about us.”

  Pol mulled that over, rubbing his thigh to ease a muscle cramp. He’d been in the saddle two days past forever. “Maybe they’re just possessive. I always get the feeling that Azhdeen considers me his property. Morwenna was Elidi’s, and taken from her.”

  “But the way you described her howls—and Elisel hovering around Sioned—it argues for something else. Something more.”

  “Not a parent-child relationship. And certainly not friendly equals.”

  Riyan nodded ruefully. “You know what it reminds me of? A child with a favorite toy.”

  Pol gave a start, then began to laugh. “Goddess. That’s exactly what it is! I had a stuffed greentail bird when I was little, velvet with real feathers sewn on, and polished sand-jade eyes. I talked to him all the time, played with him, wouldn’t go to bed unless he was there—and Goddess help anybody who so much as put a finger on him. He was mine.”

  “And not to be shared. And that’s how the dragons see us.”

  “So I’m Azhdeen’s walking, talking, breathing stuffed toy, am I?”

  “It’s just how Sadalian treats me.” He paused. “Do you think Elidi went to Stronghold for vengeance?”

  Pol narrowed his gaze. “If you’re asking whether one of us should volunteer to play dead and then see what the dragon does, no thanks.”

  “I’d never do that to a dragon! No, I was thinking that if they perceived a threat to their humans—”

  “—they might attack?” He considered it, but only for a moment. “They’re too vulnerable. Think what damage a volley of arrows could do, or one of those stone-throwing arms. And the Vellant’im don’t seem afraid of dragons anymore.”

  “Maybe. But I’d probably wet my trousers if I saw a flight of angry dragons coming at me.” He shook his head. “No, you’re right. We can’t use them. Not that way.”

  “So we’re back to sand. More specifically, what’s on it. Tell me how I can use Feruche.”

  Riyan flexed stiff fingers around his reins and rotated his sore right shoulder. He’d slaughtered so many Merida and Cunaxans that he’d wrenched a muscle in the process. “I don’t think we can. Sorin built it too well. It’s too imposing. One look and nobody in his right mind would attack.”

  “That’s what everybody thought about Stronghold, too.”

  “But Feruche is relatively easy to supply, which Stronghold really wasn’t. They knew you had to come out and fight eventually. What about Skybowl?”

  “What about it?” Pol asked, his impatience returning. “You own it, you know it better than anybody but your father. How would you use it?”

  “It’s too steep to attack from or mount an assault against. But there’s a good flat stretch out beyond it, if you’ve a mind to a pitched battle.”

  “I don’t. We lose them,” he replied bluntly.

  Riyan said nothing.

  After a moment Pol shrugged irritably. “We’re beating our wings without flying anywhere. Tomorrow mornin
g we’ll be back at Feruche, where two Battle Commanders can think this out much better than we can. Chay didn’t have much to do the last thirty years, but Zehava kept him good and busy before that. And he taught Maarken everything he knows.”

  “But you’ve got an advantage with Maarken. He’s a Sunrunner. He’ll use that in his battle plans, too.”

  Pol glanced back and slowed his horse, seeing that they were a little too far ahead of the others. “That’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. What we did at Stronghold worked, as far as it went. Sectioning off the enemy under a fire dome—and we’ll have to think up a better word for that, too. It wasn’t really the ros’salath Andry used at Goddess Keep.”

  “It didn’t kill,” Riyan murmured.

  “No, it only allowed the soldiers to do our killing for us.” He slammed his fist against the pommel, startling his horse. “Hells, Riyan—I dance as I like around an oath I never swore, but the rest of you—”

  “—will make peace with ourselves. And with the Goddess.”

  “Very pretty,” Pol snapped. “Stop trying to make me feel better.”

  Riyan gave him an overdone bow from the saddle. “It’s Maarken’s duty to kick you when you need it. The rest of your athr’im must soothe your bruised backside. Which reminds me—with a victory to celebrate, would it be the right time to take formal oath of us? There’s Chay, Maarken, and me—”

  “And that madman Kazander.”

  “He’d swear to you?” Riyan asked in amazement. “An Isulki?”

  “He’s crazy enough to swear the sun sets in the east if I ask him to.”

  “I don’t dare imagine the words he’ll use in the oath-taking. Does he always talk like that?”

  Pol smiled briefly. “Worse. I think it’s a good idea about the vassals. We’ll include your little brother, too, on your father’s behalf.”

  “Dannar will enjoy that. Kierun and Isriam can swear to you for their fathers, as well. You don’t happen to have another prince handy, do you? One of them ought to take oath in token of the rest.”

  “Not all of whom are thrilled with the prospect of me as High Prince. No, I left Daniv down at Skybowl with Walvis and Feylin. He’ll be sorry to miss all the princely trimmings. There was a banquet once, at Radzyn, and my father says—” he closed his mouth and glanced away.

  “I understand,” Riyan told him quietly. “It hurts us all. But it’s hardest on you.”

  He shook his head. “Goddess, I wish it were. I can stand it—at least, I think I can. I have to. But my mother—you don’t know what this has done to her. At least I can go out and kill people.”

  “It helps.”

  “Only while I’m doing it. When the fighting’s over and my blood cools, I feel—Riyan,” he blurted out, “I’m a fraud. An imposter. And I don’t know why it should matter, because it’s been that way all my life. But every time anyone says ‘my lord’ in the voice that really means ‘High Prince,’ I expect to hear him answer. I’m pretending to be what he was, doing what I think he’d do.”

  “Why not do what you believe is right?”

  “I did. Yesterday,” he replied bleakly. “I don’t want to be good at killing. What scares me is that I think it’s what I might be best at.”

  Rohan had said the same thing, jeering at him. “Perhaps you’re the right man for the work after all. Perhaps only a barbarian can defeat barbarians. Take heart, Pol. If I die somewhere along the way, you’ll be High Prince and get your chance to play the warrior. You ought to do very well. You seem to have all the right instincts.”

  And yet, who had been his pattern for what he had done? None other than his elegant, educated, civilized father. In 704, Merida had attacked Stronghold. Rohan had ordered the right hand of every prisoner cut off—and hadn’t even had compassion enough to cauterize the wounds. . . .

  Riyan’s voice, deliberately harsh, interrupted his thoughts. “Maarken isn’t here, so it’s left to me. Stop feeling so damned sorry for yourself! If all this wounds your tender sensibilities, so much the better.”

  “What do you care? All you have to do is what I tell you. I’m the one who has to decide.”

  “So the lowly athri can’t possibly understand the mighty High Prince?” Dark eyes glittered dangerously. “You whining, self-righteous—”

  “Stop it, Riyan!”

  “Didn’t you learn anything from Rohan? It’s when war starts to feel good that you’ve got something to worry about!”

  “Then start worrying,” he snarled. “I loved it and I can’t wait to do it again!” He dug his heels into his stallion’s ribs and galloped ahead, where the lengthening afternoon shadows could hide him.

  • • •

  “You got him! You got him!”

  Isriam staggered carefully amid a swarm of children and wished Princess Jihan wasn’t such a stickler for realism. Even on his best days he tended to a few awkward bumps—his ever-lengthening limbs would get in the way of every table and chair and doorway at Feruche—so he was used to bruises. But Jihan would complain if the fall wasn’t a good one, and there was nothing soft in the kitchen garden but turned vegetable beds. Resigned to more bruises and a great deal of dirt, he toppled with what he hoped was true artistry, bracing himself with one “wing,” and let out a piteous moan.

  Instantly a dozen children climbed all over him, giggling and tickling. Lady Maara then called victory, and he was helped to his feet by the solicitous royal hands of Princess Rislyn, who asked if he was all right.

  “Your poor, defeated dragon is just fine, your grace,” he replied. Brushing himself off, he smiled down at her and wished his parents had seen fit to give him a little sister or two. In this castle that some days resembled a minor riot held at hip-height, he was discovering that he liked playing big brother.

  Lord Chaynal had been apologetic when assigning Isriam to ride herd on the children. “It’s scarcely the kind of duty a squire dreams of, especially one at the court of the High Prince.”

  “Oh no, my lord, I like it. I want a big family—and it wouldn’t do to have Daniv playing nursemaid. Not a Prince of Syr.”

  So Daniv had stayed at Skybowl to command troops as befitted his lofty station—under the guidance and protection of Lord Walvis and Lord Sethric. Isriam did not envy his friend in the least. He’d had enough of battle. It was a relief to be given charge with Lady Betheyn of the refugees from Dorval. He had quickly learned that although the children were fun and not all that much trouble, he had no patience with their elders. He loathed bad manners. Betheyn took care of the parents; he saw to the children; and if patrols hadn’t regularly ridden in and out of Feruche, he could have sworn this was merely a castle with an overpopulation problem and there was no war at all.

  Of course, the journey to Chaldona would be another matter entirely. He would have chances enough to use his training to keep the Dorvali together and moving. His was the command of the accompanying troops, and his orders would supersede even Betheyn’s. Isriam knew he could do it, and do it well, but he was just as happy to be distracting the children while their elders packed for the evening departure.

  Hungry after their fifth dragon slaying, the children invaded the kitchens. Isriam groaned inwardly when sweets were distributed by indulgent servants. So much for any hope of settling the mob to naps.

  Suddenly a wave of silence passed over them, and every single head bowed in the direction of the door. Isriam turned. High Princess Sioned paused at the lintel, blinking at a quiet unnatural in a kitchen full of children. She swayed slightly, and for a moment she almost looked like Princess—High Princess—Meiglan, tense with apprehension at what all these people might expect of her.

  Isriam had lived at Stronghold since 733, when he’d come as a squire at the age of twelve. Her grace’s capacity was legendary. He had seen her drink her husband, Lord Chaynal, and Lord Maarken under the table and not bat an eyelash.

  He had never seen her drunk.

  He started forward, fearing he k
new not what. Rislyn was faster.

  “Granda, Granda!” she sang out, clasping her grandmother’s hand. “Isriam makes us take a nap before dinner, will you read to us instead? Please?”

  He cringed inwardly at the thought of a slurred voice stumbling over every other word. But he had underestimated her. Not a syllable was out of place, not a sibilant was anything other than perfectly clear.

  “Of course I will, darling. Come on, all of you, let’s go upstairs and I’ll read you a story.”

  “Not a lesson story,” Jihan said, wrinkling her nose. “We had lessons this morning. We want a good story!”

  Sioned laughed and led her little army of sticky-faced children away. Isriam had better manners than to sigh with relief. But relief lasted only as long as it took one of the maids to catch his eye.

  “I was hoping she’d come down for something to eat, my lord. She doesn’t, you know. Hardly a morsel. Just this.” She held up an empty wine pitcher.

  His mother, a Lady of Meadowlord who made sure everyone knew it, had drilled into him very early that one never listened to servants’ gossip, let alone participated in it. But Lady Isaura had never had to deal with a High Princess in Sioned’s condition.

  “It’s not as if she tries to hide it, either. My lord, I don’t like to trouble the High Prince, but if she keeps on the way she’s going. . . .” She shrugged. “Perhaps Lord Meath. . . .”

  “Yes. I’ll talk to him.”

  On his way to the courtyard to find the Sunrunner, he wondered how in all Hells one informed a man that his mother was drinking herself to death. Well, better Meath than him.

  A groom told him that Meath had been seen entering the west garden. Isriam pushed open the black iron gate decorated with painted dragons and made his way through the short shrubbery to the pond at the maze’s center. Meath was sitting on a bench, calmly Sunrunning. Isriam knew the look of it, and respectfully held back until the faradhi’s eyes focused again.