The Dragon Token

by Melanie Rawn

  “I can’t ask that of you—”

  “You don’t have to. Rohannon says that even without Andry, Goddess Keep’s defenses are adequate. And they’ve got all those people outside the walls to fight for them now. Besides, I have no intention of having done to me what was done to Tilal. Let someone else come to their rescue. Your trouble up in Firon is more dangerous.”

  Laric chewed his lip for a moment. “I can’t believe it of Yarin. I’m married to his sister, for the Goddess’ sake! My sons are his nephews!”

  “I believe it, all right,” Arlis responded grimly, leaning forward in his chair to stir the fire with an iron poker. “He was none too happy when you were made ruling prince.”

  “But that was more than eighteen years ago! There’s been no indication—”

  “Would you give any, if you wanted to keep what’s yours? Lord Patwin was the perfect vassal to Prince Kostas, too. And look what he tried to do.”

  “Yarin can’t hope to keep what he’s trying to steal.”

  “Not without someone very powerful behind him. Which is why I’m inclined to Camanto’s view.” He paused a moment. “Goddess. Can you imagine telling your people that they’ll have to fight an army of diarmadh’im?”

  “Why do you think I haven’t said anything about Camanto’s suspicions to my troops? And I see I’ll have to agree with you both. It’s more than just a suspicion.” Suddenly Laric put his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. “When I think of Tirel, all alone and helpless—he just turned seven, not twenty days ago. If Yarin harms my boy, I’ll kill him with my bare hands.”

  “Well, we have to get there first. I’ll have Rohannon watch as he can at Balarat, see who’s at Snowcoves and who isn’t, what the best plan might be. How many at Snowcoves can you count on?”

  “I thought I could count on Yarin,” the prince replied bitterly.

  “You were wrong,” Arlis said bluntly. “It’s the privilege of your position that you’ve got the power to make amends for your mistake.”

  Laric sat back in his chair. “That’s Pol talking, not Rohan.”

  “I was Pol’s squire, and frankly, I find his example a better one these days than his father’s. Forgive me, I know your family’s affection for Rohan, but we can’t invite the Vellant’im to a conference and read them the law.”

  “Or the diarmadh’im, either,” Laric said. “Very well, Arlis. Ask what you need to know, and I’ll tell you as best I can.”

  • • •

  “But that’s insane!” If Andry had had just a little more energy left, he would have sprung from his chair and paced as Evarin was doing. “Why send Meiglan back here? She’s safe enough at Feruche. Sorin built it so it could never be taken.”

  “That’s what they said about Radzyn,” Evarin replied. “I’m sorry, my Lord, but it’s true.”

  “Radzyn wasn’t taken,” Andry corrected, scowling. “My father—”

  “Whatever,” the physician interrupted, then shook his head. “Another apology, my Lord. I’m too accustomed to asserting myself here, to counter Hildreth’s influence.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “She doesn’t like you,” Evarin said in mild tones.

  “So what? Neither do half the Sunrunners who were trained by Lady Andrade.”

  “No, I mean she really doesn’t like you. If she knew you were here, she’d tell Pol if she had to go shadow-lost to do it. You haven’t heard her talk about you, Andry. As far as she’s concerned, you’ve perverted every aspect of Goddess Keep and made her ashamed to be a Sunrunner. Some of the arguments we’ve had—”

  “Regarding my transgressions? Or regarding your relative places here?”

  “Both. What she gets from Hollis and the others, she doesn’t tell me. And who can say what she knows that I don’t?”

  “And if you don’t know, neither do I, is that it?” Andry laughed again. “Oh, Evarin, you are so young! I really ought to fine you one of your rings as punishment for doubting me.”

  The physician stopped before the map table and planted both fists on it. “What do you mean?”

  “Only this.” Andry rose and stretched. He craved rest, but would have to wait until after he’d seen Miyon. “Did it ever occur to you that Hildreth was a little too emphatic? That she reviled me a little too much?”

  Evarin’s jaw dropped.

  “Pol always knew I had someone here at Dragon’s Rest, keeping an eye on him. He allowed it because that’s how the game is played. I know there’s someone at Goddess Keep, too. Part of the fun is not knowing exactly who it might be.”

  “Fun—?” Evarin choked out. “Fun?”

  “If I can do nothing about it, then I might as well amuse myself with it.” Andry lost his smile. “The point is this. Hildreth, though she was part of the group that brought Sioned to the Desert in 698, was never caught in my dear aunt’s spell as the rest of them were. Meath, for instance. He’d give his life for her, but he wouldn’t offer me his extra cloak in the rain.”

  “You mean all this time Hildreth has been—”

  “Exactly. She tells me what I wish to know about what happens here. But don’t let on that you know. Keep arguing with her. It wouldn’t do for Pol to have even a hint that his faithful court Sunrunner isn’t.”

  Evarin nodded. “Who do you think it is at Goddess Keep?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” Andry said breezily, as if it didn’t matter. “But you know now why I trust so few people.”

  “Only the devr’im.”

  “And you.”

  “Why?”

  Andry smiled again. “Because I gave you what you wanted most in the world. In return, you gave me your loyalty. That isn’t a thing one can buy, Evarin, and certainly not command. It must be given freely—and accepted without demands put upon it.”

  After a moment, the physician said musingly, “You know, you would have made an excellent High Prince.”

  “You know, I think so, too.” He laughed without humor. “But Pol can keep the job. It’s not a Hell I covet. Now, tell me how I can accidentally encounter Miyon this time of day.”

  • • •

  In the event, Miyon sent for him. Having heard that a courier had come to Dragon’s Rest with news from Lord Ostvel, the prince commanded the man’s presence in the early afternoon. Not only did Miyon want information—and was irked with Lisiel for not including him in on the first hearing of it—but he knew that his impersonation of loyal father-by-marriage could use some burnishing.

  The courier, once assured they were alone and unobserved in Miyon’s chambers, claimed to be a Merida. The prince backed up a pace.

  “If you are, which I doubt, you’re out of your mind to be here.”

  “Not all of us wear the warrior’s scar, your grace.” The man shrugged. “It can be something of a fatal liability in some circles.”

  “You can have nothing to say that I wish to hear.”

  “Judge that after you’ve listened.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because even though Birioc failed, there is still hope.”

  It had been a frustrating Autumn and an infuriating Winter, but suddenly Miyon laughed and went on laughing until his stomach ached and he had to grope his way to the nearest chair.

  “By the Father of Storms,” he managed at last, “you must be a Merida! No one else talks so stupidly! Lady Merisel destroyed your masters and most of you. Zehava finished the work of taking your lands and castles. Rohan slaughtered you. Pol damned near annihilated you not fifteen days ago. And still you talk of hope!”

  Broad shoulders shrugged. “Yet we are still here. More importantly, the Vellant’im are now here. And from them we Merida receive our hope.”

  “Oh, fine. You have my leave to do whatever you like. Enjoy yourself. Breed up another generation in time for Rohannon’s turn at playing Battle Commander of the Desert. And then his son after him, and his—it never stops for you Merida, does it? But hear me well, and take my words
back to the High Warlord or whatever madman sent you. For me it stops now, and forever.”

  “What if Princess Chiana and Prince Rinhoel are waiting in a safe place for the Vellant’im to join them?”

  “What if plow-elk were dragons?”

  “What if the diarmadh’im will be coming as well, to mount an attack on Dragon’s Rest?”

  “What if I called the guard and told them what you really are?” But Miyon’s brain tantalized him with a glorious image. Much as he tried to banish it, the picture of himself at the head of an army was too sweet to deny.

  The Merida was smiling just a little. “What if I told you that after the palace is taken, as senior prince you will escort Rinhoel here in triumph and proclaim him Ruler of Princemarch?”

  His pretty vision included no such thing. He scowled. “Why would I want to do a fool thing like that? And what makes Chiana think she can take Dragon’s Rest in the first place? She lost Swalekeep.”

  “She had no help in keeping it.”

  “And the sorcerers will throw in with her now?” He snorted. “Oh, don’t tell me, let me guess. Because Rinhoel is Roelstra’s grandson, and thus the rightful prince. Do me a favor! Neither those bearded savages nor the diarmadh’im strike me as being particularly interested in lawful succession.”

  “Rinhoel is useful—for the time being.”

  Miyon hesitated, then shook his head. “No, you’ll get no help from me. None of you has done anything but lose, leaving me with several sticky explanations to make.”

  The Merida’s face tightened. “You must agree, your grace. You must.”

  “Don’t use that word to princes,” he warned.

  “When Prince Rinhoel rides in at the head of an army of sorcerers, he won’t forget that you refused to aid him.”

  “It’s by no means certain that he will win.”

  “It is a fact,” the man stated flatly. “What defense does Dragon’s Rest have against sorcery? Not even High Prince Pol could withstand—”

  “What about Lord Andry? He turned them away at Goddess Keep. Hildreth and this physician fellow can send to him—”

  “Why should he protect his cousin’s palace?”

  Miyon chewed a fingernail. “No love lost there, true.”

  “Your best chance—”

  “Shut up. I’m thinking.”

  Suppose Rinhoel did win. Nobody knew what an army of diarmadh’im could do. And if Miyon was on the wrong side of it. . . .

  But suppose Rinhoel lost. How could Miyon explain—always assuming he survived the battle himself—his presence on the wrong side?

  He already had a lot to gloss over.

  Would one more thing make any difference?

  It might, if he claimed he had done as this Merida suggested to make sure Rinhoel lost. Maybe he’d kill Chiana. Pol would like that. Miyon would like it, too. Whichever way the battle went, surely he could manage to stick a knife in her throat and silence her for good. Hells, Rinhoel might even thank him. At the last Rialla—Goddess, only a season and a half ago?—the boy had chafed more under his mother’s doting eye than at his father’s spinelessness.

  He could feel the Merida watching him. It reminded him of the way his father’s ministers had watched him, those first years after he’d succeeded to Cunaxa’s throne. Calculating, self-serving, ready to interrupt instantly if he said the wrong thing—which was anything they hadn’t told him to say. He’d had such a satisfying morning, killing them all with his own sword. . . .

  “Your grace’s daughter is coming to Dragon’s Rest, is she not?” the Merida asked softly. “Her daughter Jihan will do as Prince Rinhoel’s wife.”

  Miyon reclassified this man from irritant to danger. It was a fine and ruthless mind that did not scruple to use children in its scheming. It was the only thing he admired about Chiana.

  He knew about her long-range plan; she had hinted at it this Autumn, right here at Dragon’s Rest. He had had an interesting time of it, keeping his face neutral at her roundabout proposal of a marriage alliance while making sure his eyes encouraged her. For he liked the idea very much, though not for the reasons Chiana did. With the marriage, one day Princemarch would be Rinhoel’s—but with Rinhoel dead, one day Meadowlord would be Jihan’s.

  “You said Rinhoel is convenient for now,” Miyon said abruptly.

  A frown greeted this question. “He . . . is our best hope,” was the cautious reply.

  “But someone else would do as well.”

  “Rinhoel is all we have.”

  “Why marry him to Jihan, then? Legitimacy of claim doesn’t matter.”

  “There is . . . something else.” Long legs brought him a few paces toward Miyon’s chair. “Jihan is . . . gifted, as you know.”

  “She’s a Sunrunner. I would have thought the diarmadh’im would execute her instead of—”

  “She is one of them,” he said softly. “Her gifts are sorcerer’s gifts, her blood is diarmadhi blood.”

  Miyon gaped at him. “Have you lost your mind? How could she possibly—” He caught his breath. “Not Pol. Is it Pol?”

  “No. Your daughter. Through her mother. She didn’t know it, but the sorcerers who sent her to you did.”

  “By the Goddess and all her works!” Miyon exclaimed. “I knew about Birioc’s mother being a Merida, but Meiglan’s? You can’t mean that puling little bitch is—”

  “—of the Old Blood,” the Merida finished for him. “And when she rules Princemarch, so will the sorcerers. On behalf of the Vellant’im, of course.”

  “Of course,” he echoed, his mind hurtling after possibilities. “So Rinhoel will be the public reason and the rallying point, and Jihan—”

  “—will be the next High Princess, the legitimate heir born of diarmadhi blood, and able to command the loyalty of her people—and the Merida.”

  Miyon glanced up. “Once you’re back to your old tricks, whom do you intend to assassinate first?”

  “Whomsoever threatens our Lady.”

  “Make it Rinhoel,” Miyon said, grinning.

  The Merida blinked. Then a small smile tugged the corners of his mouth, and he bowed. “Your grace is wise, an essential quality in a Regent.”

  “Mmm. Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

  If Pol eventually came out on top, Miyon could claim to have had Rinhoel killed to avenge the insult done to his darling granddaughter, and hand Pol Meadowlord besides. But if Pol died. . . . He smiled. With Pol gone, who better to be Regent until Jihan was of an age to marry someone else? A man of whom, naturally, Miyon must approve, and who would be ruled by him—on behalf of the Vellant’im and the sorcerers, of course.

  Oh, of course.

  “Very well,” Miyon said, getting to his feet. “I will say that I am leaving Dragon’s Rest with my escort to assist Lord Ostvel. Where’s Chiana hiding, by the way?”

  “Rezeld Manor.”

  “The site of her former transgression?” He started for the door. “Not very clever. But I suppose it’s a rallying point for the diarmadh’im or some such. It doesn’t matter. I’ll leave tomorrow morning.”

  “Your grace is indeed wise.”

  “You’ll go back to the Vellant’im and tell them all this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you be safe?”

  The Merida looked puzzled. “It’s true that it took me some time to avoid Lord Ostvel’s patrols, but—”

  Miyon’s fingers clenched on the door handle—silver cast in the shape of a dragon’s head and neck—and schooled his expression to a pleasant smile as he looked over his shoulder. “With no scar on your chin, you escape being known for a Merida. But with a shaven face and no gold beads, you might not escape being killed by the Vellant’im for a spy.”

  The man shrugged. “I’ve been careful and lucky thus far, your grace. It is kind of you to worry.”

  “Not at all. You look tired. I interrupted your rest, I fear. But it’s excellent news you’ve brought me, and a relief to be doing something after so
long. Go back to your chambers. And you have my thanks.”

  Miyon strode down the hallway to the stairs, taking them two at a time. At the bottom, spotting a servant, he ordered the tutor Catallen sent to him in the lower gardens at once. When he was outside in the cold, heart pounding and hands clammy, he took several deep breaths that seemed to ice his lungs. He walked very fast through the water garden, then down the steps to terraced plantings covered in snow.

  Fool! he raged at himself. Why hadn’t he checked earlier, before blurting out so many damning schemes?

  No help for it now. Only the swift concoction of another scheme—one much simpler, and much lovelier as it took shape in his mind.

  Two days to Stronghold—or what was left of it. Catallen had been there before, he knew the way. All the same, Miyon would send one of his own guards along with the tutor. Just in case.

  But where could he find what he must send with them? He knew the message; it formed in his mind to the rhythm of his footsteps in the snow. Two days to Stronghold through Dragon Gap. There would be snow only on this side of the mountains. They could make up the time on the Desert side.

  But where could he find the essential item that would see his message safely delivered—and believed?

  Two days. Catallen must leave tonight. No one would miss him until morning. Who cared about a tutor, anyway?

  But where could he find—

  This was Dragon’s Rest. The place was crammed with the things—door handles, clothes hooks with open jaws, candle holders that curled sleeping wings around wax tapers, the damned spigots in his bathroom—

  —and the brass finials on the mirror frame in his bedroom.

  He closed his eyes and sighed deeply. He’d have to saw the little figure from its base, but that would be the work of a few moments. And then he’d have his dragon token.

  Which the purported Merida, claiming to come from the Vellant’im, did not.

  • • •

  Andry locked the door behind him and collapsed bonelessly onto the bed. He could feel his assumed face change back into his own and was too tired to care. That short while with Miyon of Cunaxa had exhausted him more than the ride from Swalekeep. All he wanted was to sleep for three days.

  He lay flat on the bed, willing his knotted neck muscles to relax. It had taken Miyon a long time to bite, let alone to swallow. Once or twice Andry had come near to panicking. But he hadn’t, though his stomach felt a little queasy even now at how close he had come to failure. If he hadn’t bumped into Evarin. . . . His shoulders tensed again. He drew a few slow, deep breaths, using each to give heartfelt thanks to the Goddess. Without Evarin’s information about Meiglan, Andry would not have been able to use her and the princesses to catch Miyon’s greedy, wicked mind in his trap.