Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince (38 page)

Walvis’ freckled cheeks crimsoned, accenting the angry bruise over one eye. “Nothing, my lord,” he muttered.

“Come over here and let me see.” Rohan turned the boy so he faced the light coming in through the fine mesh screening of a window. “If that’s ‘nothing,’ I’d hate to see your idea of ‘something.’ ” He picked up the squire’s right hand to inspect it.

“From the looks of your knuckles, you gave something back.”

“That I did, my lord,” Walvis replied grimly.

“Would you care to tell me the trouble?”

“A matter of honor.”

“Yours or mine?”

“Both.” A man’s stubborn jaw suddenly jutted out of the child-round face. “One of Prince Durriken’s squires said that—he said you were—”

“Yes?” Rohan prompted, knowing that under no circumstances must he laugh.

“I don’t like to repeat such things, my lord.”

“Repeat them anyway.”

The boy gulped and blushed again. “He said—that you were going to have trouble getting a son on any woman because—forgive me, my lord—because you’re too stupid to find the pisspot, let alone—”

“I see.” Rohan kept stern control over his facial muscles.

“I repaid him for the insult, my lord!”

“I can see that, too.”

Walvis touched the bruise and shrugged. “I was really something to see a while ago,” he admitted.

“Mmm.” Rohan turned away, occupying himself with the arrangement of the parchments in his traveling desk. When he could keep a straight face, he said, “I trust you have use enough of your limbs to go see our jeweler at the Fair.”

“Are my lady’s emeralds ready?”

“I’d like you to find out. If they’re finished, bring them back here. And if they’re not—”

“I’ll find out why!”

“Gently, please,” Rohan cautioned with a smile. “After all, we’ve given the poor man hardly any time at all. Off you go, now.” When the squire was at the partition he called softly, “Walvis?”

The boy turned. “Yes, my lord?”

“I’ll wager Prince Durriken’s man looks
much
worse than you do.” Walvis grinned proudly. “He won’t be chewing anything harder than water for days—nor walking straight up, either!”

This time the laughter escaped. As Walvis bowed and left him, Rohan’s amusement turned to a sigh. Oh, to be eleven years old again and able to take the direct route toward a goal—preferably with a solid right to Roelstra’s jaw. He still smarted over the blocks the High Prince had tried to place in the way of his harmless trade of glass and horses for the craftmasters and cattle skins. It had been nearly impossible to keep his mouth shut and look bewildered while Volog and Clutha did his arguing for him.

A mild commotion outside the tent distracted him, and through the window opening he caught sight of Camigwen directing the placement of a dozen long tables. Rohan belatedly recalled that this evening he would be hosting an informal dinner. There would be dancing afterward, and a very late night—for all the work was done and it was time to enjoy the social life to the fullest before tomorrow’s Lastday ceremonies.

“Camigwen? May I interrupt for a moment?”

She turned, squinted to see through the mesh, and said, “Of course, my lord.” She hurried around to the entrance and ventured inside, her eyes darting around curiously at the furnishings of his private quarters. “Everything’s going splendidly, my lord,” she reported. “There’s no more rain coming up from the south, so no danger of our outdoor feast turning soggy. The cooks are well in hand—they’ve finished the roasts and the ices and wines are chilling in the river, and I’ve timed the breads to be nice and hot just as dinner begins.”

“You’re a marvel,” he said, smiling. “You’ve taken wonderful care of me here and on the journey—and I’ve been wondering if you’d like to make the arrangement permanent.”

Camigwen frowned. “I can write down all the directions—”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” he scolded gently. “Sit down, won’t you?”

She sank onto a small upholstered stool, hands folded in her lap, and he spent a moment in silent admiration of her extraordinary dark eyes. It was as if one could see her heart and mind through them, so limpid and clear were they. For an instant he envied Ostvel the sight of those eyes smiling at him every morning of his life, then smiled. There would be another pair of eyes, green as summer leaves and just as extraordinary, to gaze at him.

“You’ve lived at Stronghold,” he began, “so you know how complex life there can be. I need someone who won’t drive me to distraction the way my present chamberlain does. He’s really my mother’s man, not mine. I also need someone to oversee the guards and all those other things my father used to do for himself, but that I’ve never been much interested in. Would you and Ostvel consider coming to live at Stronghold and taking on those duties? I know it’s not very important work compared to what you could be doing at other courts as a Sunrunner. And I know Ostvel has the talent and ambition to become chief steward at Goddess Keep one day. But I wish you’d both think about it.”

A flush rose into her dark skin. “You’re kind to ask, my lord.”

“No, I’m selfish. I need you both. I’d consider it an honor if you made Stronghold your home.”

Walvis burst into the tent just as Camigwen started to reply. The boy skidded to a stop on the carpet, nearly dropped the velvet pouch he carried, and gasped out, “My lord, they’re finished—just look!”

He upended the pouch onto the desk. Eight emeralds as big as Rohan’s thumbnail were set in a maze of delicate silver, as if moonlight had been
faradhi
-spun around the stones. Two more emeralds had been worked into matching earrings, and yet another surmounted a fantastic silver hairpin sprinkled with tiny diamonds. Rohan had neither specified those last two nor provided the diamonds; the jeweler had evidently been inspired.

“Lady Sioned will outshine the starlight,” Walvis said proudly.

“Oh, yes,” Rohan murmured. With an effort, he tore his eyes from the jewels and slid them back into the pouch. “Lock these up for now, please, Walvis. And thank you.”

“You
do
mean to marry her!” Camigwen exclaimed.

“I thought you knew!” he answered, startled.

She sprang to her feet and threw her arms around him. “Of course we’ll come to Stronghold, Ostvel and I! We thought you didn’t
want
her!”

“Now, what ever gave you that idea?” he growled, hugging back.

“You did, my lord,” Walvis contributed, grinning.

Cami stepped back, hands on hips, dark eyes dancing. “You’re a dangerous man, my lord prince.”

“I’ve been called a lot of things, but—dangerous? There’s a condition for your coming to Stronghold, by the way.” He tried for sternness, but neither voice nor face obeyed. “I have to set an example, you know, and I will not have you and Ostvel in my household unless you’re properly married. Now, what do you say to that?”

She sank into a deep curtsy marred by shaking shoulders and a giggle. “Dragon-spawned you were, I’ll take oath!”

“Actually, it’s Sioned and I who’ll follow
your
example, for I had tomorrow in mind for you and Ostvel and it’ll take time to arrange a wedding for us. Will that suit?”

“Perfectly!”

Rohan got to his feet and impulsively kissed her. “Lucky man, our Ostvel,” he said to make her blush.

“Lucky woman, our Sioned!” she retorted, and they laughed.

Palila sat alone in her cabin, colossally bored. One of her maids had just finished rubbing oils into her body to keep the pregnancy from marking her flesh, but even that sensuous pleasure no longer held any charms for her. She wanted to be out in the world, enjoying men’s glances of admiration: and women’s glares of envy. By the Storm God, how she hated being pregnant.

Roelstra’s entry into her cabin startled her nearly speechless. She gave rapid thanks that she was dressed in a lavish bedrobe and her hair was arranged as he liked it. But he did not appear to notice. To any other man she would have presented the very picture of ripening womanhood in which he would find smug pride. But Roelstra had seen more child-heavy females than any man except a physician.

“Crigo doesn’t seem well,” he said without preamble.

“Has he been taking too much, or too little?”

“Probably the former, after his deprivation during the journey here.” He paced the cabin restlessly, fingers brushing over tables, chairs, brass fixtures, tapestry curtains shielding the windows. “I’ve forgotten what the usual dose is of
dranath
to wine. It’s been a long time since we took him—useless fool,” he added irritably.

Every instinct she possessed stood up and howled out a warning, but she managed a smile. “A profitable time, my lord. I believe it’s half a handful to a large pitcher. But why not ask him? He’s been preparing his own for years.”

The High Prince shrugged. “Didn’t you hear me? He’s been taking too much. He’s sitting in his tent now, barely coherent, unable even to tell me where he keeps it. We’ll have to ration him, Palila. Where’s the supply?”

“In the third drawer of my wardrobe.” She watched as he retrieved the wooden box from among the array of her filmy silk underclothes—a sight that invariably turned his thoughts to making love with the woman who owned them. But he didn’t even see her. “What shall I tell him when he wants more?”

“He won’t. I don’t want him bothering you, my pet.” He traced the carvings on the box with one finger, then met her gaze, smiling. “Not a single thing should worry you, in case it might worry our son.”

She cried out happily. “That’s the first time you’ve said it will be a boy!”

“I hope it will be so,” he corrected. “But then, I’ve been hoping for twenty-five years. Still, by the next
Rialla
I just may be presenting the rabble with their next High Prince.”

“I hope he pisses on Andrade,” she declared, dimpling.

“No son of mine would have such barbaric manners—but I like the idea!” He came to her, ran one finger down her cheek. “Rest well, my dear. I’ll want you at your loveliest for the Lastday celebrations.”

“As you command me, my lord,” she said, smiling up at him.

“I wish my daughters were as careful of my pleasures as you are, Palila. Remind me to tell you about their maneuverings, especially regarding that Sunrunner girl.” His eyes lit with amusement—and something more—as he smiled and left her.

She sank back into the cushions and shredded their fringe distractedly. Instinct continued to shriek at her while she reviewed every word of the conversation, cold to her marrow as the words became a single hideous sentence: her sentence of dismissal and Crigo’s of death.

She had not lived with Roelstra for over fourteen years without coming to understand him. His gaze wandered each time she approached term, but each time she managed the affairs herself, making sure they were brief and unproductive. The girls vanished from Castle Crag once Palila was physically recovered from childbirth. It was part of her longevity as Roelstra’s mistress that she saw to his pleasures even when she was unable to participate in them herself.

But this time was different. She sensed it along every nerve. She reviewed the princesses’ descriptions of the
faradhi
girl, stripping them of jealousy and adding to them Roelstra’s own words about Crigo’s uselessness. This time his need for a new woman had coincided with his need for a new Sunrunner—and this Sioned was his choice for both.

Palila used the energy of panic to lever herself up from her couch. Her back ached as she went to the wardrobe and searched the lower shelves for a small packet always kept with her lesser jewels.
Dranath
was an herb that increased its potency over time, and this packet was very old indeed—one of the first given her by the old mountain witch. She grunted as she got to her feet with the drug clutched in her hand, returning to the couch out of breath after even this small exertion. Crigo would be brought to her here, and have a strong dose tonight; the barge could be in the worst storm off Goddess Keep and he would think himself on dry land. He would need all the false strength
dranath
could give him, for tonight he would do for her what he had not done in more than five winters. He would deliberately seek another
faradhi
’s colors on the moonlight.

Andrade sat in a comfortable chair, a plate of food on her lap and a wry smile on her lips. The atmosphere of Rohan’s outdoor dinner party was romantic enough even for her fool of a nephew. Torches cast golden light over faces made rosy by wine, a breeze off the river stirred the huge buckets of flowers around the perimeter of the dancing area, and musicians played lilting tunes she recalled from her girlhood. Immune to the ambience, she watched the couples around her succumb to it—several young highborns and their Chosen ladies whom she herself would unite on the morrow, and various married couples who should have been long past such nonsense. Camigwen and Ostvel had eyes for no one but each other; Chay and Tobin were behaving as if they’d just fallen in love, standing over by Rohan’s tent feeding each other wine-soaked berries and giggling like children. Andrade sighed. She would be hard-pressed to find some intelligent conversation tonight. Thank the Goddess she had never lost either heart or head to a man. Still, as she watched a young lord glide by with his intended wife on his arm, she wondered briefly what she might be missing.