The Dragon Token

by Melanie Rawn

  As the children stood up, both gasped. Alleyn shrank against Jeni’s side, whispering, “Do you see it?”

  “In the mirror,” Audran breathed.

  Jeni looked, and saw nothing but their own reflections in the right-hand quarter of the mirror. “It’s just us,” she began.

  “No—look!” Alleyn pointed.

  “I don’t see anything.” She glanced up the stairs behind them; empty of everything but the blue carpet runner and the polished brass rods that secured it. Perhaps a flash from one of these had made the children think—

  “It’s a man, dark like Mama and all the Fironese,” Audran said. He started forward; Alleyn grabbed his arm. “Let me go! I want to look at him.”

  “No!”

  “There isn’t anything in the mirror,” Jeni said, pulling them both to the right so that their own reflections vanished.

  “He’s gone,” Audran complained.

  “He was never there,” she said firmly. “It’s dark, and it was only a trick of the light.”

  “But, Jeni, I saw—”

  “Imagination and shadows,” Jeni told them, and took their hands to urge them up the stairs.

  But when the two children were snug in their own beds, and Jeni had gone to hers, Alleyn whispered, “He was there. I saw him.”

  “So did I. Why didn’t she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who do you think he was?” Audran persisted.

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know much, do you, Alleyn?”

  “Then why are you the one asking all the questions? You don’t know any more than I do. Go to sleep.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Prince Arlis of Kierst-Isel—canny ruler of two princedoms, husband to a cherished wife, father of three fine children, an intimate of the High Prince’s circle by friendship as well as blood, able commander of the war fleet in harbor at Einar—had at the moment one simple ambition. He wanted to speak a single sentence to its finish.

  A lesser man, faced with Lord Sabriam’s selective deafness, would have given up long since. Arlis was young enough and stubborn enough to keep hoping he would eventually succeed.

  “The storm kept them busy for a while, but now they’re sailing down Brochwell—”

  “How do you like this piece?” Sabriam, Lord of Einar and probably the richest man in all the princedoms (excluding Pol), gestured for his harpers to play louder. “I wrote it myself. Music is only a different form of mathematics than account books—and I do so enjoy both,” he added, smiling all over his long, pale face.

  “Lovely,” Arlis said because he was expected to. Personally, he found the tune chilly and too precise. Music ought to be made with the heart as well as the brain. “Tell me, my lord, had you given any thought to—”

  “You certainly are Lord Maarken’s boy, aren’t you?” Sabriam went on as Rohannon circled the small table, pouring more wine. “How’s your charming mother, my lad? Still as beautiful as ever?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Rohannon smiled back. “I was wondering if I might—”

  “So many pretty women in the Desert,” Sabriam mused, picking over a plate of delicacies. His were not the hands of a musician or a scrivener; they were large, thick-fingered, and strong enough to choke a wolf. “I always look forward to Riall’im for that very reason. Dragon’s Rest is a fine enough place, I’m sure, but the scenery is vastly improved when the Desert ladies arrive. Try one of these sugared pears, Arlis. My cook stuffs them with chopped nuts and steeps them in wine syrup.”

  “Thank you, I’m—”

  “Perhaps some of this.” He sliced off a large chunk of layered cheese—five different kinds and colors wrapped in a pastry shell—and popped it in his mouth.

  Never, not even at Dragon’s Rest, had Arlis seen so many marvelous things to eat. Never had he seen anyone eat so much and so constantly, and not weigh upwards of twenty silkweights. Sabriam was as thin as a rail, and looked utterly strengthless but for those huge, powerful hands.

  Nor had Arlis ever met anyone with more exquisite hearing. Sabriam could hear the cork slide from a bottle in his wine cellars. But every time Arlis or Rohannon got five words into any topic the Lord of Einar disliked, Sabriam’s deafness was as instantaneous as his interruptions. At first, Arlis seized on the moments when the man’s mouth was full—and there were plenty of them—to ask his questions. He learned very quickly that concentration on food was absolute; Sabriam really didn’t hear anything while he chewed and savored and swallowed.

  Arlis wanted to know if Sabriam would cooperate in reoutfitting his ships, making repairs, and buying provisions. Rohannon wanted to know if Einar’s court Sunrunner would teach him more about their craft. The only thing Sabriam wanted to know was whether his son and heir, Isriam—Pol’s squire now that Rohan was dead—was all right. Assured of the young man’s safety and health, he had heard nothing they’d said since.

  That had been seven days ago.

  Perhaps, Arlis thought, perhaps there was a moment—just after swallowing broke the dreamy contemplation of a mouthful and before the judicious selection of another morsel—that might find Sabriam vulnerable. Somehow, he doubted it.

  Lady Isaura had been no help. She was mourning her sister, Lady Cluthine, and her uncle, Prince Halian. Sharing her husband’s adoration of fine food but not his immunity to its effects, she was a great gray-velvet presence in the corner of the solar, with none of the wispy beauty of a cloud and all the solid bulk of thick fog. Rohannon had commented this morning that Isaura and Sabriam resembled nothing so much as a heavy hoop and the thin stick that rolled it.

  Arlis had hoped she’d roll herself down to the docks, or at least to the maritime office at the residence, and decree all needed assistance from local chandlers and the like. Failing that, she could with the stroke of a pen have authorized his credit with them. For even though he was now prince of both Kierst and Isel with all the resources of two lands behind him, no one in these troubled times dealt on any but a cash basis.

  The Hell of it was that he needed repairs and supplies, and there was nowhere else to go. His own people were doing what they could, but nothing substituted for skilled shipwrights—or the treated wood they worked with. Arlis had inherited nothing of the Kierstian Sunrunner gift and everything of his Iseli grandfather Saumer’s love for ships; it tore his guts out to see the makeshift patching done to hulls damaged in the battle with the Vellant’im.

  Between the apologetic but unyielding caution of the merchants and the selective deafness of their lord, Arlis was very close to breaking heads. The first two days in Einar, he’d seen to his troops and his ships, getting an idea of what was needed and spending very little time with Sabriam. The third and fourth days had been spent trying to convince the dockside folk that his credit was good. The fifth day was wasted trying to get a word in—straight on, edgewise, backward, however—with Sabriam. He didn’t really begrudge the time spent here; the wind was wrong anyway, and his people deserved a rest.

  The sixth day, he’d accepted Lord Bosaia’s invitation to go fishing. Nothing like relaxing in a sailboat to inspire one’s thoughts to creativity. But Sabriam’s brother had brought along his ten-year-old son in a fairly obvious attempt to win Arlis’ interest in making the boy his next squire. Anheld chattered incessantly all morning; Arlis pleaded fatigue at noon and spent the rest of the day growling in his chambers.

  Yesterday, the seventh of his sojourn in Einar, Isaura had cornered him and Rohannon to tell her all that they knew about what had happened at Swalekeep. She had heard it all from the court Sunrunner, of course, but wished to hear it again. Arlis had thought repetition of the sacrifices of her sister and the brave death of her uncle would push her into offering her help. But she only sat and cried, and rambled on about her terrible loss, and vowed she could think of nothing other than their dear faces, certainly not about nasty things like war.

  Rohannon, who had met Isriam at Stronghold several times before
leaving for Kierst-Isel, was of the opinion that the son resembled neither parent—and a good thing, too, or he would have driven Uncle Rohan quite mad.

  Arlis was not about to suffer that fate. He thought of himself as a patient man, but this was the outside of enough. He signaled to Rohannon and got to his feet. Sabriam didn’t even glance at him.

  “. . . as I told my brother Bosaia the other day, the Spring Hunt should be—”

  “My lord,” Arlis said firmly, determined to speak his piece if he had to shove a rug down Sabriam’s throat to shut him up, “I regret to say that I can accept no more of your kind hospitality and must leave immediately.”

  “Leave?” Sabriam was betrayed into a blink. “For where?”

  “Goddess Keep, where the Vellanti fleet has gone. They must be stopped.” As Sabriam drew breath, Arlis plowed on, “Rohannon says they’ve been stalled by the winds so far, but that will change. And if I must sail without proper stores, or arms, or with holes in my ships, then so be it. I can wait here no longer.”

  “Oh, they won’t dare attack Goddess Keep again,” Sabriam assured him. “Do sit down, have a taste of this cake—”

  “Thank you, my lord, but no. Rohannon?”

  They started out of the solar—and ran smack into two men in armor and a staggeringly beautiful woman in white furs.

  “Laric?” Arlis stared at the taller of the men. “What in the Name of—”

  The Prince of Firon gaped at the Prince of Kierst-Isel. “Arlis? I saw your colors flying from the masts, but—”

  The next Prince of Fessenden—who had yet to tell Arnisaya that her fatherless son was not in competition for the honor—pushed past them both and strode into the room.

  “Sabriam,” he began, “what’s all this idiocy I hear about not giving Prince Arlis everything he needs?”

  • • •

  Properly applied, power was a lovely thing.

  Before Arnisaya had even removed her furs, Sabriam had ordered a page to run down to the docks and command his steward there to set everything in motion. They would work through the night if necessary, but all repairs and replenishing of stores would be finished by morning.

  Isaura did not look very pleased to see Camanto; Laric eyed him as they handed their cloaks to Rohannon and whispered, “I thought you said she was a friend of yours.”

  “When she was younger—and thinner,” Camanto replied. He went to her chair to bow over her hand and compliment her on her beauty. “Which is greater than ever, my lady, even though tinged with such sadness after your tragic losses. I was so sorry to hear—”

  “Yes, thank you,” she snapped, snatching her hand away. Tears did not instantly follow mention of Cluthine and Halian, which Arlis noted with an irritated frown. He wondered quite suddenly what she and her husband meant by delaying him here.

  “May I hire one of your ships to take me to Snow-coves?” Laric asked him, low-voiced. “It seems my wife’s brother has decided he can rule Firon better than I. Prince Camanto has kindly joined me in the effort to demonstrate otherwise.”

  “Kindly, or self-servingly?” Arlis muttered. Laric shrugged.

  “We don’t discuss his motives much. But he has one very important one. He believes Yarin to be supported by sorcerers.”

  “Sorcerers? Has he any proof?”

  “A long tale, and one I’ll save for private. But whatever the circumstances, my princedom and my son are in danger. Will you help me, Arlis?”

  “With great pleasure. And no more about ‘hiring’ one of my ships.” He grinned. “Lord Sabriam’s example of generosity has moved me to the same.”

  Meantime, Isaura was watching Camanto draw a chair closer to the hearth for Arnisaya. Heavy black lashes drooped a little, and a little menacingly, over dark brown eyes, especially when Camanto’s fingers swept a subtle caress to the princess’ waist. Isaura didn’t see Arnisaya’s quick glance of surprise at the gesture—the first time he had willingly touched her since Edirne’s death—but she did see her former lover’s smile.

  Sabriam was watching, too. His fingers clenched briefly around the stem of a golden wine cup. But his voice was as smoothly innocent as ever as he said, “Prince Camanto, do sit here by me and have a little of this pastry.”

  • • •

  Andry had been to Dragon’s Rest four times, so the landscape was familiar to him. But that bright dawn, Princemarch seemed enchanted.

  The snow had stopped yesterday afternoon, and with sudden sunshine had come a brief thaw. Andry had spent the night shivering in a shepherd’s abandoned hut, glumly positive that with the morning he would be combing his hair with icicles instead of fingers. His first look outside made him catch his breath and forget his discomfort. The overnight freeze had caught meltwater in long, thin trickles from every hedge and tree. Each blade of grass poking up through the snow was wrapped in its own glassy casing; bare branches were cloaked in clear, shining shawls. And from it all the sun glinted in colors that called joyfully to his faradhi senses.

  He rode through a forest of crystal and rainbows—and music, as sliding icicles shivered others with a sound like chimes. Sometimes he drew rein and simply listened, holding his breath, eyes wide and laughter hovering in his throat. Goddess in all her wonders be praised, the world was a glorious place!

  There was a layer of ice atop the creek that ran through the Dragon’s Gullet—an unlovely name for the beautiful and eminently defensible ravine that led into the valley. Andry dismounted and cracked a boot heel through the ice, bending to splash water on his face. Gasping with the shock, he dried his hands on his cloak and closed his eyes to the cascades of snow clinging to the canyon walls. He concentrated, and within moments had finished. He was becoming rather good at this; Evarin would be proud of him.

  But Evarin was the person he avoided most of all as he was escorted to Princess Lisiel’s rooms. The sentries had challenged him well before the ravine broke open into the valley, but he was obviously harmless—although they did take his sword. There was nothing remotely sinister about this dark-haired, dark-eyed, clean-shaven man of anywhere between thirty and forty-five winters, the condition of his clothes and his tired horse silently restating his claim that he had ridden a very long way. Where from? Swalekeep, of course, with news for the Princess Alasen.

  “Too late, friend,” one of the guards told him. “She rode out yesterday for Feruche.”

  Andry shrugged, privately seething. Couldn’t the fool woman stay in one place more than two days together?

  He gave his prepared speech to Lisiel, surprised to find her in charge of Dragon’s Rest. But Edrel and Norian had gone south to help her crippled brother Elsen, and Miyon was not a candidate for supreme authority here even though this was his daughter’s residence. Andry hid surprise and worry at the news of Elsen’s destination. What sort of trouble was Torien in at Goddess Keep to make him call for help?

  When Andry added almost as an afterthought that Chiana was not to be found anywhere between Swalekeep and Dragon’s Rest, Lisiel sighed in pure relief.

  “Goddess be thanked for her goodness. Although what sort of welcome Chiana thinks she’d have here is beyond my imagining.”

  “If she was admitted to your presence, your grace. . . .” He let himself smile. “I’m told she’s rather creative with her tongue.”

  Lisiel snorted indelicately. “If you mean she can lie like a carpet on a bare stone floor, you’re right. And now I think you’d better go have something hot to eat. You’re a walking icicle, you poor man. Have the steward find you a bed, too. You could use some sleep, I’m sure.”

  Thanking her, he bowed his way from her presence and started for the kitchens, pausing to ask directions as a newcomer would. At one turning he caught sight of Hildreth and slipped into a side hallway. She would not be looking for a Sunrunner, let alone the Lord of Goddess Keep himself, but she might be more perceptive than was safe for him right now.

  Andry waited a little while, pretending to inspect a tapestr
y, then started for the kitchens again. Something to eat, a little rest—though not sleep, for his assumed face would vanish as he slept—and then he would be ready to find Prince Miyon.

  So intent was he on weaving the story more tightly for Miyon’s benefit that he slammed right into one of the servants.

  The man stumbled back. Andry looked at him.

  “My Lord!” blurted Evarin.

  “Shut up!” Andry exclaimed. He glanced swiftly around; no one had seen them. “Meet me in the Green Library, the one with the maps—you know it? Good. I’ll be there as soon as I’ve eaten. Go on, hurry! We can’t be seen together!”

  “Yes, my—uh, yes,” Evarin stammered, and fled.

  As the cook’s assistant plied him with hot soup and fresh bread, Andry made a show of complaining about the maze of corridors at Dragon’s Rest, and how easy it was to get lost in their turnings. That would give him a reason for becoming confused enough to end up in the Green Library—and for happening upon Prince Miyon later today. He made himself ask for a second cup of taze when a pair of guards came in to flirt with the maids, and begged directions from them to the guest servants’ quarters. Better to spread it on thick than thin.

  At last he rose, complimented the girl on her cooking—she blushed; evidently his new face was a handsome one—and left the warm kitchen for the cold hallways. A short time later he let himself silently into the Green Library, sparing not a glance for the gorgeous rugs and velvet upholstery that gave it its name.

  Evarin was wearing a path in one of Pol’s carpets. He swung around as Andry came in. “My Lord, don’t think I’m not glad to see you, but what in the Name of the Goddess are you doing here?”

  • • •

  Laric and Arlis said more or less the same thing to each other in private. The answers brought more questions—and Arlis’ sudden decision that Goddess Keep could fend for itself. He was going to Firon with all his ships and soldiers.