The Dragon Token

by Melanie Rawn

  “Oh, that won’t matter much.” And she held up the small silver dragon.

  Ostvel squinted at it, frowning. “Where did you find that?”

  “Right here.” She patted the pocket of Chiana’s velvet robe. “You know what it looks like?”

  “Yes—like a chess piece, not a token of safe passage. It might even be the one that got Cluthine killed.”

  “Nobody knows for certain how or why she died. It might not have been this at all. And Tilal fooled them perfectly with his.”

  “It was Rinhoel’s, a gift from the Vellant’im. This one—”

  “Well, it’s worth a try, isn’t it? And who’s to say I’ll even need to use it?” She set down brush and dragon and knelt beside him on the bed. “Come, love—you know I’m right.”

  He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I’ll have plenty of soldiers with me. I won’t come to any harm.”

  “Alasen—”

  “And if I leave soon I might even be able to catch up before they work any mischief.”

  Gazing up into her wide green eyes, he suddenly heard his own plaintive voice say, “But you just got here.”

  His wife laughed low in her throat and leaned over him. Tendrils of her damp hair tickled his bare chest. “Are you finally trying to tell me you’ve missed me?”

  Ostvel blinked. “You knew that! Of course I’ve missed you!”

  “Then act like it.”

  Much to his surprise, and despite his weariness and his years, he did. And for the first time slept soundly within the walls of Swalekeep.

  • • •

  Whatever prodigy had produced Rohannon’s initial immunity to the sea, it was entirely gone by the time Arlis’ fleet caught up with the Vellant’im. All he could do was wedge himself into a corner of the captain’s deck with his pail between his knees, beyond even a simple wish to be dead.

  It had come upon him gradually, like the power lent by the dranath, but with the opposite effect. He’d hidden his growing discomfort as long as he could, but then Arlis had come upon him clinging to a rope rail as he sagged half overboard in the process of losing his breakfast.

  “Poor Sunrunner! Starting to feel it, are you?”

  Rohannon could still talk. He knew from experience that this wouldn’t last. As Arlis settled him in a corner, he complained, “Whoever said that when you’re at sea, you feel the rhythm of the world itself wasn’t a Sunrunner. The only rhythm I feel is in my stomach.” And then he threw up again, right on schedule. When he was finished, the prince was gone and the battle had begun.

  Not that Rohannon knew much about it. His concerns narrowed to the pail and the waterskin someone had been kind enough to put beside him, so that when his belly emptied itself he could drink a little in preparation for the next time. By late afternoon he’d stopped lamenting that he’d been born a Sunrunner, and was wondering why he’d ever been born.

  So he missed the brilliance of Arlis’ maneuvers that split the Vellanti fleet in two. He missed the thrilling speed of the attack, the wind that seemed to turn when and where Arlis wanted, the volleys of deadly arrows exchanged ship-to-ship, and the sight of the dragon-prowed vessels running for all they were worth back toward Brochwell Bay in a sudden gale. What Rohannon missed most of all, however, was his own bed.

  He lifted his head blearily when someone picked him up and said, “No weight at all, my lord. He’s but a lad, getting taller but still skinny with it.”

  A painful amount of thought later, he decided they were at Einar. He couldn’t have sworn to it, as the motion of being carried was nauseatingly akin to the sway of the ship. But then all motion stopped, and he was lying flat on his back on some soft, fragrant surface that stayed blessedly still. He closed his eyes and plummeted into sleep.

  When he woke, he felt dimly better. He raised himself on one elbow and squinted. A room. A real room, with stone walls and tapestries over them to ease their chill. A fire in the hearth near the bed he lay on; a window full of driving rain; a chair with Prince Arlis seated in it, calmly paring an apple.

  “M-my lord,” Rohannon managed, and Arlis glanced at him.

  “Good morning, and Goddess blessing to you, Sunrunner,” he said with a happy smile. “I won’t insult your stomach with an offer of food, but you really ought to get some liquid into you. Wine, taze, or plain water?”

  He knew he had turned green. Arlis chuckled.

  “Forgive me. It’s not funny to you, I know, but the rest of us find a certain wicked relief in the proof that faradh’im have weaknesses we don’t. Go back to sleep.”

  “Is this Einar?”

  “It is. We arrived yesterday evening.”

  “Yesterday?” Rohannon repeated blankly.

  The prince grinned. “Yesterday. By the way, we won. I’ll save the details for a time when you’re able to comprehend how truly magnificent it was,” he went on wryly. “In fact, I’m amazed I’m alive to boast of it. If the wind hadn’t shifted that last time and driven one of our ships into one of theirs instead of the other way around, and if the storm had caught us just a little sooner—” He paused. “You don’t remember any of it, do you?”

  “I remember being wet and miserable, and then much wetter and much more miserable. That was the storm?”

  “Yes, and seven of their ships braved it to escape us. Three of them we sank, and one smashed on Guardian Rock. By the Goddess, though, they can sail!”

  “Welcome to it,” Rohannon mumbled, easing himself back onto the pillows.

  Arlis laughed. “Sleep,” he repeated, and as it was the best idea Rohannon had heard in days, he did.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Birioc, who called himself Prince of Cunaxa, never saw the inside of Tiglath. He never even got to the walls. As Walvis had done thirty-three years earlier, Tallain took the fight to the Merida on the flat plain outside the castle and town.

  There was no advantage on either side that was not matched and canceled by an advantage on the other. Fury collided with hate; desperation with determination. Superior numbers countered superior skills. The ground was level and provided no help to either side. Not even the sun mattered. The day was overcast by a thin haze off the sea that allowed not even a shadow.

  Yet by the end of it, when the slaughter was finished and the battlefield was overhung with wheeling scavenger birds in a steely sunset, Tallain rode through the gates of Tiglath carrying aloft Birioc’s head.

  He had it stuck on a pike and displayed from a balcony overlooking the main square. Then he washed the blood from his body and went to bed.

  His Sunrunner awakened him at midnight. Vamanis had been ordered to keep watch for clear moonlight in which to send word west to Feruche of the victory. Instead, he came to him with news from the east, from the Sunrise Water.

  “Ships, my lord. Three of them, with dragon heads and three square sails. They must be up from Radzyn.”

  To help Birioc, no doubt. Well, Birioc was no longer in need of help.

  Tallain was.

  His people were exhausted. Casualties had been brutal. His own wounds—more bruises, ribs grazed by a sword, a gouge in his lower right leg—were throbbing again since the salve had worn off. He rose, and dressed, and armed himself with Vamanis’ help, and went up to the tower that looked out over the Water Gate.

  From here, he and Sionell had seen more familiar sails when Chadric’s people had come during the first days of the war. The selfish part of him wished his wife was still with him; a more selfish part was passionately glad she was safe.

  He could just see the ships now, coming as near as they dared in the shallow water, sails glowing in the moonlight. Rid of one enemy, tomorrow morning he would face another.

  “What are your orders, my lord?” the Sunrunner asked.

  What could he do? Nothing but close Tiglath as tightly as he could. Nothing but wait for them to come to him, and loose arrows when they got close enough, and hope they would be discouraged and abandon th
e attack.

  To go where? South, back to Radzyn whence they had come?

  No. They were here now, no matter that Birioc was not alive to rejoice in their coming. Tallain knew where they would go next, if they were not stopped here.

  Feruche. Where Pol was.

  Where Sionell would soon be.

  “My lord,” Vamanis said softly, “if you ask it of me, I win.”

  He turned his head, the movement pulling the stiff muscles of his shoulder where Birioc’s sword had landed with brutal force. The blow had been meant for his neck, and he’d only just managed to deflect it. With the next upswing of his own sword, he’d decapitated his enemy and the battle had been over.

  “I will use Fire,” the Sunrunner said.

  Tallain knew it hadn’t cost him as much as it would an older faradhi, one schooled by Andrade. No, that was unfair. Vamanis had sworn as they all swore, and all Andry’s pretty justifications couldn’t disguise the naked fact that the ros’salath had killed. What Vamanis was offering was as deep a betrayal of what he was as if Tallain had thrown open the gates of Tiglath, welcomed the Vellant’im with feasting and songs, and then given them a map of the easiest way to Feruche.

  “I thank you, Vamanis,” he replied in a gentle voice. “But I would never ask it of you.”

  “That is why I offered.”

  After searching his eyes a careful moment, Tallain said, “I can’t tell you to do what you think necessary. That would be inviting you to break your oath while placing all responsibility for it on you. When a Sunrunner comes to live at a keep, it’s understood that he will be protected as surely as if he were sworn to the athri. The way I see it, I should protect you from having to make that decision.”

  He shook his head. “It’s between me and Lord Andry. Me and the Goddess. You have nothing to do with it.”

  “Except for the circumstances in which that oath might be broken. I think you’ll agree that this, at least, is my responsibility.” He smiled. “You’ve been with us nearly ten years. You should know me by now, Vamanis.”

  “I came here after Princess Chiana threw me out of Swalekeep,” the Sunrunner retorted. “She wanted no faradh’im near her. You took me in. Here, I’ve done what I was supposed to do. What Lord Andry trained me for. Tiglath has become my home. I’ll help defend it any way I can.”

  It was a losing battle—just like the one he suspected he faced against the Vellant’im. He nodded slowly, yielding to Vamanis. But not to them. Never to them.

  “I think we can let the others sleep,” he said. “There’ll be no attack before dawn. Right now I need your Fire for another purpose. Will you come outside with me?”

  “Certainly, my lord. Shall I try Feruche again? The wind may have shifted the clouds by now.”

  “Perhaps later. Everyone else can sleep, but we must move quickly.”

  By dawn, the longboats had landed in the cove and the alarm was sounded through Tiglath once again. The gates were shut and barred. Out on the battlefield, the heaped corpses of Merida and Cunaxan battle dead had been augmented by the fresh corpses of their wounded whom Tallain had killed with his own sword. Vamanis had set the whole huge hideous pile ablaze in warning to the Vellant’im.

  • • •

  Edirne hadn’t grown bored with playing soldier as quickly as Camanto had thought. He slept on the hard ground like everyone else (inside a small tent with a brazier burning all night against the cold), ate the same field rations as his troops (washed down with fine Ossetian wine instead of water), and washed each morning in melted snow (heated over that same brazier to a comfortable temperature). Camanto, sensible of the perceptions of the little army, slept outside. Edirne never offered him the wine or the hot water.

  But it had been five days since they’d left Fessada, and still Edirne had not tired. It went beyond Camanto’s understanding of his younger brother. And as understanding him was the key to replacing him, Camanto was nervous.

  Arnisaya showed up on the fourth day with an escort of twenty, looking like the Snow Princess of legend in her white furs and riding a white mare. Camanto gave her full marks for audacity and for judging her husband’s mind; nothing could be prettier than prince and princess riding together in defense of their princedom. And that his soldiers should perceive his wife as being unable to live without him pleased Edirne’s vanity.

  This wasn’t even within arrowshot of the truth, of course. They all knew what Arnisaya was playing at—or Edirne thought he did. Last midnight she’d left Edirne sleeping in his tent and sought out Camanto, coaxing him to walk with her along the frozen riverbank. In safe privacy, she had left no doubt as to which of the brothers she had really come to see.

  This morning in public she had been all tender solicitude for Edirne, all admiration, all wifely pride. Camanto was disgusted with himself for finding it disgusting to watch. He ought to be have been amused. Instead, he was jealous. And that did not figure into his plans at all.

  “I think that today we’ll teach the Fironese prince a little lesson,” Edirne announced as they rode together that noon.

  It was what Camanto had been dreading. The bridge at Silver Hill was still several measures away. They had outpaced Laric’s forces marching on the other side of the Ussh. Edirne must intend now to cross in to Princemarch and fight it out there. Whatever the outcome, Pol would be livid.

  If Pol survived this war, which Camanto was determined that he would. He cherished no great tenderness for the new High Prince, but he knew what must be occurring up in Balarat, and a Vellanti or diarmadhi presence on Fessenden’s northern borders was intolerable. Laric must get there and defeat Yarin. And Camanto was going to help him.

  How lovely that to do it, he would have to stop Edirne. For good.

  “Not too much farther,” said the heir to Fessenden. His cheeks were red with the icy wind and his eyes sparkled his anticipation. Camanto wondered what Edirne thought battle was like. Waving a sword, shouting defiance, killing people who wouldn’t dare raise a hand to him because he was a prince?

  “We’ll cross and wait for them. If they challenge us, we’ll fight them—all the way down to Brochwell Bay if need be. No one sets foot on the soil of Fessenden without permission from the prince.”

  Camanto exchanged a speaking look with Arnisaya. She gave a minuscule shrug of one fur-clad shoulder. She had been oddly subdued—except for last night—and that made him suspicious. Edirne should have been, too, but perhaps he thought her dazzled by the figure he cut on horseback, with a sword at his side and the silver fleece of Fessenden billowing overhead on a sea-green banner.

  “You must stay on this side of the river, my lady,” Edirne told his wife.

  “Oh, but can’t I watch? I want to see you in battle, my lord, with your sword raised and your pennant flying—”

  Camanto chewed on the inside of his cheek to prevent a snort of laughter.

  “We must hope it won’t come to a battle,” Edirne replied, reaching over to pat her hand. “If it does, you’ll have to miss it.”

  She pouted charmingly, then gave meek answer. “As you wish, my lord. Only—make certain he’s well protected, won’t you, Camanto?”

  If he looked at her, all hope of composure would be lost. “Of course, dear sister,” he said as evenly as he could.

  “You’ll have to keep up with me first,” Edirne gibed, putting spurs to his stallion and riding ahead at a carefree, contemptuous gallop.

  Camanto gestured for a few riders to follow Edirne. Still unable to meet Arnisaya’s gaze, he muttered, “Goddess help me, if you say one more word—”

  There was a muffled giggle amid the white fur cloud of her hood. He stole a glance at her, and suddenly laughter was the last thing on his mind. She was spectacularly beautiful, radiant with the cold air and exercise, curling tendrils of glossy hair straying around her brow and cheeks. No stranger to his desire by now, Arnisaya smirked her triumph and spoiled the view.

  They rode on. Camanto occupied himself by tryi
ng to think up ways of preventing his brother’s folly. He never would have expected winter to do it for him.

  The snowfall of eight days ago had melted into muddy slush, pooling in wagon ruts and dips in the road. Beneath was a layer of hard, slick ice. And it was across one of these that Edirne’s horse galloped, stumbled, and threw him into a roadside drift.

  Camanto saw it happen. Very slowly, the way things sometimes happened in dreams. The stallion’s front hooves contacted ice; a year later his head thrust out in an impossible try for balance; an eternity after that Edirne’s body lifted as if an invisible hand had plucked him up to toy with him. Even the thudding impact in soft snow seemed to echo forever.

  Time speeded up then, sharp as the wind and quick as Camanto’s leap from the saddle. Everything seemed etched in frozen whiteness—the trembling horse, the snow-heavy trees, the shocked soldiers, Arnisaya’s face, Edirne’s body. Camanto fell to his knees beside his brother, turned him onto his back. It wasn’t the fall that had killed him; his breastplate of stiffened leather had jammed up against his throat and broken his neck. Camanto fingered the broken straps that had done it, wondering numbly why the breaks were clean slices halfway through, then became ragged where they had torn.

  Arnisaya knelt, taking her husband’s head onto her lap, and bent low so no one could see her face. All Camanto could do was hunch nearby, stunned by this thing he had spent half his life hoping for. He hadn’t intended it to happen like this. Not like this, and not so fast. He’d wanted to do it himself. Slowly.

  They wrapped Edirne’s body in his cloak and tied him across his saddle. Time slowed down again; it was but a few measures to the bridge at Silver Hill, yet the journey lasted until noon.

  A few cottages clustered around a small inn and a barn—the usual sight at a river crossing on a trade route. By late afternoon the soldiers had been fed by the astonished innkeeper, the horses were crammed into the drafty barn, and Camanto and Arnisaya were seated by the hearth in the cleanest of the cottages.

  “You might practice weeping,” he advised. “It’ll be expected, once the shock wears off.”