The Dragon Token

by Melanie Rawn

  “Enlighten me,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “For one thing, you’re tougher than he ever was.” She ran a slightly shaky hand through her shorn hair. “War breaks dreams, Pol. And that breaks hearts.”

  He was afraid to ask it, which meant he had to ask it. “Mother . . . do you want me to build his dreams again?”

  She stared at him. “Whatever for?”

  “That’s what parents expect,” he shrugged. “To carry forward—”

  “As if you owed it to us? What a ridiculous idea. We owed you the best we could give you.” She raised her cup to him. “What you do with it is your problem, not mine.”

  He had to ask this one, too. “What if there’s nothing left to build on?”

  “You just don’t know yet what your dream looks like.” Suddenly her eyes softened. “Just make sure it’s worthy of you. That’s the hardest part, I know.”

  How could she understand him perfectly when he didn’t understand her at all?

  She smiled—a real smile this time. “Not what you came to hear, is it?”

  “That doesn’t matter. It’s you saying it.”

  “All you ask of me is words? No, I don’t think so. There’ll be much more before this is over. Just don’t ask it tonight. Frankly, I’m not up to it.”

  She set the cup down and pushed herself to her feet. Her words were immune to wine; her body was not. Pol helped her to the bed. When she stretched out, already asleep, he tucked the quilt around her. Light from the bedside candles whitened the crescent scar on her cheek, the scar that matched his own. He knew her face as well as he knew his own. But he’d never been able to read her.

  No one had, except Rohan.

  He blew the candles dark and left her to sleep.

  • • •

  Sionell woke at dawn to a warm, safe, married feeling. She snuggled closer to her husband’s solid frame, rubbing her cheek against the thick mat of dark blond hair on his chest. But as she inhaled drowsily of his scent, she started to full wakefulness. He stank of sweat, leather, and horse. And blood.

  “Tallain!”

  “Hmm? What?”

  She flung the covers back and began a frantic inspection of his naked body with eyes and fingers. So many bruises, so many places where the straps and buckles of his armor had chafed the skin.

  “Sionell!” he exclaimed. “What in the world are you doing?”

  “You’re all right—tell me you’re not hurt!”

  “Just bumped around a bit, nothing to signify. Ell, that tickles!”

  Ignoring his protest, she knelt and tugged him over onto his stomach. At his right shoulder blade, where a gap in the stiffened leather armor allowed for the flex of muscle, was a long, narrow gash. Grabbing the water pitcher from the bedside table, she moistened a corner of the sheet and daubed the dried blood from the wound.

  Tallain yelped. “Stop it. That’s cold!”

  “Hush up. Are you hurt anywhere else?”

  “It didn’t hurt there until you started pouring ice water on it! Will you—” He rolled over and seized her wrists. “Will you,” he repeated, “please settle down and give me a proper welcome?”

  “Tallain—”

  But he pulled her atop him and demonstrated his notion of welcome. When he had finished kissing her, she propped herself on one arm and scowled at him. He smiled back.

  She gave him a shove. “What are you doing here?”

  “Were you expecting someone other than me in your bed?”

  “Don’t be silly. What happened? Is Riyan with you? You should have woken me when you got home.”

  “I was barely awake myself.” He lay on his side and gathered a handful of her unbound hair, bringing it to his cheek. “You smell beautiful.”

  “Well, you stink to the High Veresch and look even worse. How many days since you won the battle?”

  “Two. How did you know we won?”

  “You’re here,” she replied succinctly. Rising, she pulled on a bedrobe against the morning chill. “You need something to eat—and a bath while you’re waiting for it. You can tell me everything that happened.”

  “Not just now, Ell.”

  She decided to let that go by unremarked. After going to the outer door to summon the servants, on her way back she picked up the trousers, shirt, and tunic he’d let fall on his way to bed. “Ugh! These will be burned at once.”

  Tallain yawned. “Apologies for inflicting my stink on you, my lady.”

  Her eyes stung with sudden ridiculous tears. “Don’t be silly,” she repeated. “You’re home and safe—oh, Tallain, what happened?”

  “You were right, we won. The only thing of mine that bled was my sword, Ell. Goddess, it fairly wept blood. . . .” He lay back in bed and closed his eyes, and when he spoke again his voice was supple and easy. “I gave the blue suite to the Isulki warlord. He’s a bit crazy, but—”

  “Kazander? He’s here?”

  Tallain propped himself on his elbows. “You know him?”

  “I met him in 729, when I took ’Talya to visit my parents.” She chuckled suddenly with the memory. “And he is quite mad, in a charming sort of way.”

  “Charming,” Tallain echoed flatly. “Well, he’s here, now that Merida hunting has proven unprofitable. Have the steward look after him, please.”

  “What aren’t you telling me, love?” she murmured, but so low that he didn’t hear.

  A seemingly endless parade of servants arrived carrying buckets of hot water to dump in the tub. From early spring until late autumn, the roof cisterns provided all the sun-heated water anyone could need. But in winter, fuel and labor must do what in other seasons light and plumbing accomplished. While Tallain soaked his bruises and washed off the dirt, Sionell played squire by choosing his clothes and arranging his meal beside his favorite chair. A page was sent to ask Lady Lyela to take care of the children for the morning—Sionell’s three would like that, they adored their father’s cousin. The steward came to report that Lady Rabisa was no better and no worse. She washed and dressed herself, but must be persuaded to eat, and said not a word to anyone. Usually Sionell spent part of each morning with her brother’s widow, talking or reading to her, coaxing her to pay some heed to her two small children. But Jahnavi’s death had killed something inside Rabisa. She was content to let life around her go on without her, uninterested even in watching.

  Sionell gave all the needful orders for a normal day at Tiglath, with special attention to Lord Kazander’s comfort. Her portion of the world thus arranged, she closed the doors on it and concentrated on her husband.

  He let her dress the cut on his back and rub salve across his bruises, smiling as she gave him yet another inspection for other wounds. Wrapped in a warm bedrobe of blue Giladan wool, he sank into the sagging old armchair and devoured his breakfast and hers, too, as if he hadn’t eaten in days. She saw the last of the elk sausage disappear, hid a smile, and poured more taze.

  At last he leaned back, replete and almost drowsy again. But his dark eyes were dancing as he said, “I’ve had less efficient servants, and much less beautiful—but none of them ever made me suspicious with their care of me.”

  “You said you wanted a proper welcome,” she replied archly. “Now do I get to ask all those awkward questions?”

  “I suppose you must.”

  Sionell slid from her chair to perch on a footstool at Tallain’s knee. “I haven’t any. You fought a battle and won. Some of the Merida got away. You and Kazander have been chasing them down. But I don’t think lack of success is why you came home.”

  “I came home. . . .” He paused, then lifted one shoulder in a self-deprecating shrug. “I came home because I missed you.”

  “Flattering, my lord, but hardly good strategy.”

  “It is, though. Strategy, I mean. Birioc gained Tuath but that doesn’t do him any good. It’s nothing but a shell. He lost to Pol at Zagroy’s Pillar. He needs a victory, and if I make Tiglath seem easy enough—”
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br />   “Wait—go back. Pol was in the fighting?”

  He told it sparingly. By the time he spoke of what Pol and Kazander had done after the battle, he looked sick. Sionell had offered her hands halfway through the description; when he finished, he was clinging to them so hard that her knuckles were crushed.

  “Rohan did the same thing,” he whispered. “My father told me about it. But watching Pol seal the wounds with Sunrunner’s Fire—Ell, it was unclean. A perversion of what Sunrunners ought to be. It wasn’t just what he did. It was the way he did it. So . . . casual. I think it was watching how he didn’t seem to feel anything that unsettled me most.”

  “He can be cold, our prince,” she murmured. “You must have been glad to get away. And don’t you dare feel ashamed, either. What Pol did was barbaric.”

  “What he did was necessary.” Tallain eased the pressure on her hands and raised them to his lips. “I had to come home to you, Ell. I had to see you and the children and all we’ve done here to remind myself why it is necessary.”

  “But not like that. Never like that.” Her head turned as someone knocked on the door and a voice spoke Tallain’s name and title. “Not now!” she called, but the damage had been done. Tallain brushed another kiss to her bruised hands and got to his feet.

  “Come in, Lord Kazander.”

  Eight years had added height, breadth, and a thick mustache, but the essentials—luminous black eyes, a dazzling smile, and a lean, quick grace—were unchanged. Kazander bowed deeply before giving her the traditional eyes-lips-heart salute of his people.

  “The Lady Sionell, who in two flicks of a dragon’s tail captured and shattered my youthful heart! Why is it that all the best, most beautiful, most desirable women are already married by the day I meet them?”

  Amusement almost made her forgive him for spoiling their solitude. She rose and extended her hand to him. “Your father’s son, I see. Welcome to Tiglath, my lord korrus.”

  “And you are your mother’s daughter. She, too, breaks my heart on a regular schedule.” He sighed. “Mine is a bitter destiny, my lady.”

  “Coveting other men’s wives, when you’ve three of your own? Oh, yes, I hear all about you from my parents, Lord Kazander. Have you been made comfortable here? If there’s anything you lack—”

  “There is, in fact. The so-called Prince Birioc’s head.” He turned to Tallain. “My men and I have toured your walls, my lord. I see now the wisdom of your plans and apologize for my stupidity in doubting. When do you wish the evacuation to begin?”

  “The what?” Sionell exclaimed.

  Tallain gave a long sigh. Kazander put both hands to his head and moaned.

  “Flay my unworthy hide with your most exquisite whips, my lord, and you could not increase my agony—”

  “Oh, do be quiet, Kazander,” Tallain said wearily. “You might as well hear it straight, Ell. It’ll take Birioc at least a day to organize his reinforcements and march on Tiglath. I’m betting on two. By that time anyone who can’t hold a sword or a bow will be well on the way to Feruche.”

  “I understand, my lord,” she said mildly.

  If anything, he grew more tense. “And?”

  “And what, my lord?”

  “Don’t you ‘my lord’ me, Sionell. There’s more. There’s always more.” He pointed a finger at her. “I know you.”

  Kazander was looking from one to the other of them, holding his breath. Sionell cursed his presence yet again, for she would have to speak calmly. One did not shriek in front of guests. Especially not when the guest would enjoy it—as long as it was not directed at him.

  “Yes, my lord,” she answered sweetly. “And you also know that I know how to use a knife,” Her success in surprising both men was most satisfying. “A knife,” she repeated silkily, “for the throat of anyone who shows me a horse and the road to Feruche, rather than a bow and a clear shot at the Merida.”

  Tallain sighed again and sank into his chair. Kazander exhaled too, muttering, “Gentle Goddess, Mother of Dragons—Lady Feylin all over again.”

  “Thank you,” she said, dividing a smile between them. “Lord Kazander, if you’ll be so good as to tell my maid on your way out that I’d like to see Lady Lyela, please?”

  He bowed again and made his escape. Had he stayed, he would have been surprised again, for her smile only grew wider. Tallain was not surprised. But then, Tallain had been living with her for over eleven years.

  “You didn’t really think I’d go, did you?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “And you didn’t really want me to, either.”

  “No. I’m a weak and selfish man, my love.” He looked up at her through a spill of overlong blond hair, a look she had never been able to resist. “And you are very good with a bow—as well as a knife.”

  “I ought to be. I learned both from Tobin.”

  • • •

  Until now, everyone had performed to Camanto’s exacting specifications. His brother Edirne had led the army Camanto had assembled to the Ussh River. Through a courier, Laric had renewed his request to cross; Edirne had refused. Laric had ridden to the shore himself to demand passage through Fessenden; Edirne had shouted back something embarrassingly pompous about the inviolability of Fessenden soil. Laric had called Edirne a fool; Edirne had not noticed when Camanto struggled against a sardonic grin of complete agreement.

  But instead of doing what any rational man would, and starting south as Camanto had planned for him to do, Laric turned his small contingent north. Exactly what he should not have done.

  But perhaps that was why he did it. Perhaps he thought he was being denied this crossing (which he was) so they could drive him south (which they could) to frustrate him again at another bridge (which he would not be, but he couldn’t know that).

  Camanto ground his teeth, cursing the Fironese prince. Laric’s thoughts were unquestionably directed north, to Balarat. So he directed his troops there as well—the idiot. If Camanto had learned anything in a life spent as eldest son but not the heir, it was that the best path to a desired goal almost never involved a straight line.

  Edirne galloped back from the riverbank, flushed with his success. Camanto listened to him congratulate himself for a while, then begged his brother’s advice on what to do next.

  “Next? What do you mean? Laric has no choice but to withdraw. He knows he’s outnumbered, and if he dares defy us and attempt a crossing, we’ll crush him.”

  “Yes, brother,” Camanto murmured. “You made that abundantly clear. But if he truly understands this, then why is he riding north for the bridge at Silver Hill?”

  Edirne appeared sorely confused for all of five heartbeats. Then he gave a bright, braying laugh. “How wonderful that he’s so stupid! I’ve always wanted to win a battle against the Fironese, just like our ancestor whose namesake I am!”

  Camanto did not point out that Laric had been born on Dorval—or that the majority of his force was made up of men and women from Dragon’s Rest. The new High Prince would not look kindly on his people being killed. Most especially did he stay silent about the terrain at Silver Hill, which was all soft hills on the Princemarch side of the Ussh and all steep cliffs on the Fessenden. An army of mountain goats couldn’t defend it.

  Then an appalling idea struck him. Edirne might be considering crossing the bridge to attack Laric in Princemarch.

  When his brother commanded a quick march north to Silver Hill, Camanto kept his tongue between his teeth by the simple expedient of biting it. Hard. His problems quickly reshuffled in priority as well as difficulty. Now he must spend his cleverness in keeping his brother this side of the river instead of maneuvering Laric south. Goddess in glory, he thought, why did no one ever do what he was supposed to?

  • • •

  More people than Sionell had expected declined the safety of Feruche. At noon, the guildmaster—Tiglath’s leading goldsmith, and by all opinions an artist of rare gifts—held council with his fellows who dealt in wool
and foodstuffs and glass and the holding’s other produce. A short time later he came to the castle and said they were all agreed. Children under the age of fourteen would leave, and women who were nursing, and those whose pregnancies were not advanced enough to make the journey a hazard. All this was as Tallain had suggested. But the rest, those who lived in Tiglath and those who had escaped the destruction of Tuath, would stay.

  “The ones who can’t fight will run supplies and tend the wounded, my lord. As for the elders. . . .” He shrugged. “My wife’s grandmother speaks for them, being the one with the most years. Her language wasn’t fit to repeat in highborn company, but you can guess what she said.”

  “I can indeed,” Tallain replied, momentarily amused. “I’ve had the honor of conversation with her before. But can’t you persuade her?”

  Sionell nudged him with her elbow. “Don’t make the guildmaster do what you’re afraid to! And what neither of you could do in any case. It’s going to be a hard enough journey for the children. All those measures across the Long Sand would rattle old bones loose from their sockets.”

  “Her very words, my lady,” the guildmaster said, then grinned. “The polite ones, anyway!” To Tallain, he added, “Lots will be drawn for the fifty you requested to accompany Lady Lyela.”

  “There will be an armed escort as well. They leave at dusk. Please let everyone know that their wives and children will be as protected as I can manage, and that I hope they’ll all be back home before too long.”

  “We trust this will happen, my lord,” the guildmaster said with a bow, and Sionell heard what he really meant: We trust you, my lord.

  When they were alone, she mentioned it to Tallain. He shook his head, smiling a little.

  “That may be. I just hope I don’t disappoint them. But their eagerness to stay and fight is made of equal parts loyalty to me and hatred for the Merida.”

  “Granted. But loyalty alone doesn’t breed such trust, Tallain. It takes love as well.”

  He looked puzzled. “I’ve done my duty by them, I think,” he said at length, and the seriousness of it made her laugh.