Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince (44 page)

“Silence!” Roelstra shouted at her, and she cringed back again.

“I’ll take Pandsala as payment,” Andrade said, and Ianthe chortled inside. “And the new child as well. The last thing you need is yet another daughter. Give them to me.”

“Living death in Goddess Keep,” he mused, eyes shining with cruel humor, and Pandsala screamed. “Very well. They’re yours.”

“Father—
no!
”

“What about Palila?” Andrade asked.

“You won’t deny she deserves death for killing your
faradhi.
I’m sure your precious Sioned has told you all about
dranath
by now, hasn’t she? Pity I didn’t kill her with it tonight.”

The High Prince and the Lady of Goddess Keep confronted each other and Ianthe watched, bewildered. What had really happened tonight with Sioned?

“Don’t interfere, Andrade. I warn you.” He paused, “Ianthe.”

She stood, wary in spite of the victory she was almost sure she’d won.

“Show her to me.”

She came forward and held out the baby. He looked at it for a moment, then unwrapped the violet blanket to make sure the child was indeed female. “Chiana,” he said. “Name her that, Andrade, so she’ll always know.”

Ianthe hid a flinch. The word meant “treason” in the old tongue. Andrade took the child from her and glanced down at the weeping Pandsala.

“Get up. The first thing you’ll learn is that a Sunrunner kneels to no one. Not even a High Prince.”

“Unless he is my Sunrunner, not yours,” Roelstra said, and Andrade shot him a vicious glance.

Ianthe looked into Pandsala’s eyes, eyes that were glazed with hopeless terror, unable to believe what had happened. All at once she seemed to recognize Ianthe and surged to her feet, hands closing around her sister’s neck.

Roelstra dragged his daughters apart. Pandsala collapsed onto the carpet and Ianthe swallowed hard past the ache in her throat. The High Prince flung open the cabin door, shouting for guards to take Pandsala to Andrade’s tent—bound and gagged if necessary. Ianthe heard her scream once in the passageway, a howl of hate and despair, and she shivered.

Then there was silence. Palila was too frightened to do more than lie mute with terror in her bed. Andrade held the baby close, staring at Roelstra.

“Where is Crigo?” she asked.

“I’ll have him delivered to your tent, if you wish.”

“Do that,” she snapped.

Ianthe drew back from the fierceness of their emotions. This was an ancient loathing, far more powerful than any she had ever seen before. It had a bitter life all its own and writhed almost visibly in the space between them.

“I’ll destroy him,” Roelstra said suddenly. “His marriage will finish him.”

“
You
wished a similar marriage long ago with another Sunrunner.”

“So that’s what gave you the idea. Did you take my anger into account when you arranged it?”

“Your anger is your own problem. I arranged nothing. The Goddess—”

“Usually does what you tell her to. Make what excuses you like. If you believe his sons will follow after him, you’re mistaken.”

“This from the man who still believes he can have a son of his own?” She laughed maliciously. “Find yourself another mistress, Roelstra! Get another dozen women with child! There will be no son for you!”

“Get out!” he roared.

Andrade’s laughter seemed to echo in the cabin long after she had slammed the door behind her. Ianthe sank into a chair and closed her eyes. She had won. If Roelstra believed her—and even if he did not—she had won. He had not condemned her along with Pandsala.

“Roelstra—oh, no, my lord, please—for the sake of our children—”

Ianthe’s head snapped up. Palila cowered back into white pillows, her eyes huge as she stared transfixed at the candle Roelstra had taken from a table.

“I remember the fire, Palila,” he said almost tenderly, and she whimpered. “Did you hear the dragoncry tonight?”

Ianthe leaped to her feet. She had never heard that note in her father’s voice before—and she wanted out. Now. He sensed the movement and, without turning, commanded, “Stay.” Ianthe froze, barely breathing. Roelstra moved closer to Palila’s bed, holding the naked candle. Its flame licked hungrily at the air.

“Do you know where Feruche is, Ianthe?” he asked.

“Yes, Father.”

“It sits on the border between Princemarch and the Desert,” he went on. “I’ve been thinking about Feruche for some time now, and whom I could place there. It must be someone I can trust.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Do you still wish possession of the princeling?”

“Yes,” she answered forthrightly.

“Your luck has run out for the night, my dear,” he told her, grimly amused. “Feruche you may have for your own, but Rohan you may
not
have. It seems the Sunrunner has a prior claim.”

“The Sunrunner,” Ianthe whispered. All at once she understood the hatred that had lashed the air between her father and Andrade. Fury and wounded pride and the desire for vengeance swept through her, creating a hatred she embraced as if it was a lover. She had been empty all her life, waiting to be filled with this sweet, hot thing that grew inside her, singing of blood and revenge. And at last she had found her definition of power—not through a princely husband or her father or any other person—power stronger than the paltry gifts of a Sunrunner. This thing was what made her father so powerful a prince. He knew how to hate.

“I see you understand me,” he said. “Return to the camp, Ianthe, and wait for me. We have much to discuss after I finish here.”

As she closed the door she glimpsed the candle flame hovering near Palila’s stricken face. And as she stepped off the ship onto the dock, she heard the first of many, many screams.

Dawn’s light filtered through pale silver-green leaves, light as velvety as new roses. Sioned, sensitive to color like all
faradh’im,
lay on her side and wondered if she had ever seen light this beautiful. She smiled at her own foolishness; it wasn’t the color or even the softness that caught at her heart. It was the sleeping face that the light caressed.

He had been shy at first, trembling, uncertain—until the fastenings of her skirt had frustrated him into a muttered curse that brought a burst of laughter from her. And all at once they were both giggling like children, the knotted ties of her clothes and the tight fit of his boots ridiculous obstacles after the other things they’d endured for this moment.

Sioned smoothed the sunsilk hair from his forehead, knowing now that her vision of years ago had been true. She was the one who had made him a prince and a man. For a little while the two had been ensnared within each other. Sired by a dragonlord whose virile image lingered, the prince had wanted to live up to an imagined, impossible standard and the man had been unsure of his ability to do so. But in her arms he had found both identities. The prince and the man joined in becoming her lover.

His caresses had sighed along her skin and his whispers shone like sunlight in her mind, kisses glowing rich with his colors that she touched in all their power and purity: diamond, sapphire, topaz. All her senses awakened to him, knowing the Sunrunner blood within him would merge with hers and make their son a
faradhi
prince.

“Just so long as he has your eyes, beloved,” she whispered, fingertip skimming along the silky curve of his lashes. She smiled as his eyelids slowly opened, almost too heavy to lift.

“Ohhh. . . .” he whispered, voice slurred. “What’d you
do
t’me?”

Sioned stroked his cheek, relishing the rough stubble of blond beard. “Would you like me to do it again?”

“Some other time, when I’m alive enough to enjoy it,” he replied drowsily. Pulling her into his arms, he settled her head on his shoulder. “Damn. I forgot to undo your braids. I wanted to see your hair loose.”

“Oh, save
something
for our marriage bed,” she chuckled.

“But I did. Chay told me once about—”

“Rohan!”

“—something I’ve always wanted to try,” he finished. “I’ll let it be a surprise.” He rubbed his cheek to her hair. “Mmm, but you smell good.”

“Not me, the mossberries. I think we crushed them into wine.” She rolled onto her stomach and pulled her skirt from under his head where it had been their pillow. “See?” She poked a finger under the moss where the plump green berries were hiding.

Rohan turned over with an inelegant grunt. “Are there any we didn’t mash to a pulp? I’m starving.” He pulled aside the moss and plucked a few of the plump spheres. “Here—open your mouth.”

“Again?”

Rohan’s eyes went wide with shock, but in the next instant they were both giggling again. They lay side by side and fed each other mossberries while the sunlight warmed the leafy canopy above them. At last she said, “That’s enough, we’ll get sick. We’d best sneak back to camp now, before they miss us.”

“I swear to you, this is absolutely the last time I sneak anywhere with you because I have to.
Not
having to will be fun. But no more of this!” Rohan sat up and reached out lazily to part the curtain of branches. “It’s awfully bright upriver, for it being only dawn. Take a look.”

She moved closer, rested her chin on his shoulder, pressing herself to his muscular back. The light hurt her eyes a little and her head was beginning to throb again. But she kept silent, not wanting to spoil the peace of the morning. She squinted into the daylight and frowned. “Rohan, that’s the wrong direction for the rising sun.”

“Smell the wind,” he said tightly.

“Fire,” she breathed.

“Get dressed. Hurry.”

They ran upriver hand in hand, the rising sun at their backs, the smoke thickening as the breeze shifted. “Is it the bridge?” she asked.

“No.”

They emerged from the trees. Roelstra’s barge was an inferno rocking gently on the water, its violet sails crimson wings of flame.

R
umors chased each other with frantic speed from camp to camp all during the Lastday of the
Rialla.
Roelstra had murdered all his daughters. They had murdered him. Lady Andrade had started the fire on board the barge and killed them
all
. Roelstra had been deposed by persons unknown, possibly the Merida. Prince Rohan had died in the fire. He had died in Roelstra’s tent. He had called for his armies to march on Castle Crag. He would marry Princess Pandsala—no, Princess Ianthe—no, both, and take the other girls as concubines. Lady Andrade was on her way back to Goddess Keep with Princess Ianthe—Princess Pandsala—

The only thing anybody knew for certain was that the High Prince’s barge wallowed on the Faolain, gutted, smoldering, its dispirited crewmen at a tavern in Waes getting drunk. One more interesting item of known fact: Lord Chaynal had hiked up the price of his horses, which would be in great demand now that whatever was left of the Castle Crag party had to find another means of going home.

Prince Clutha of Meadowlord and Lord Jervis of Waes did themselves the courtesy of ignoring the rumors. They ordered the ceremonies to progress as usual, and by midmorning a hilltop overlooking the camps had been made ready. The highborns gathered, whispering the latest, and waited for the procession of brides. When Lady Andrade arrived, there was a collective sigh of pure relief.

Frankly curious stares greeted Roelstra’s daughters. They were lacking their father and one sibling, and were dressed as richly as brides themselves. Pandsala’s absence fueled speculation that she was the Chosen of Prince Rohan; Ianthe’s sullen face seemed to confirm this. But when the wedding procession came up the flower-strewn hillside, the missing princess was not among the brides.

One of the first to step forth and be married was young Lord Eltanin of Tiglath, who still looked stunned at his success in winning Jervis’ middle daughter. She was a small, delicate girl with golden-brown hair and the musical name Antalya, meaning “spring cup” in the old language, and with wildflowers plaited in her hair and in bracelets around her arms, she was the embodiment of youthful beauty. As she was presented by her father to her new husband, she looked up at Eltanin with radiant eyes. Rohan, as the young man’s overlord, presented him to his bride with an elegant flourish. Andrade called Goddess blessing down on the pair, and Tobin was sure her brother would start dancing with delight. An alliance between his vassal and the powerful
athri
of Waes would strengthen his ties with Meadowlord; Clutha’s lands were a buffer between the Desert and Princemarch, and Jervis was Clutha’s man. Yet Tobin also detected a more personal joy in her brother’s smile. It was only natural that a young man who had won his own lady would wish all those around him equal happiness. Tobin had heard from Camigwen that Sioned had not returned to their tent the previous night, and wondered whimsically what kept Rohan from calling out his delight to the whole world.

Younger sons had found brides, heiresses had found husbands, and the parade of fathers and overlords leading young men and women to receive Andrade’s blessing went on and on. A sweet breeze from the east had blown away the lingering smoke from the dawn fire on the river, and the day shone with the last of late-summer brilliance. The hilltop was the perfect setting in which to begin a new life. Tobin smiled to herself and glanced up at her lord, remembering their own marriage on the cliffs near Radzyn Keep.

Andrade had ordered Camigwen and Ostvel to come last. “Who desires to marry a Sunrunner, a
faradhi
who rides on moonlight?” she called out, and Ostvel, with Urival as his sponsor, walked forward across the carpet of flowers.

“I do, my Lady,” the young man said proudly. “I am her Chosen and she is mine.”

“Let her come to you, then.” Andrade replied, smiling.

Camigwen stepped forward shyly, dark and exotic. But the dress she wore was very different from her everyday clothes; Tobin had seen to that. Her gown was the color of very old bronze, embroidered with gold flowers down the panels of the skirt. The small pouch at her waist bulged with Ostvel’s wedding necklet. Sioned walked beside her, wearing a plain russet dress, her emerald ring sparkling where she had laced her fingers with her friend’s. Tobin knew the murmurs through the crowd were not only for the rare public marriage of a
faradhi,
but for the rumor now current that Sioned was Rohan’s Chosen wife. Stealing a glance at him where he stood with Eltanin and Antalya, Tobin was surprised to find a thin furrow of worry on his forehead. Searching Sioned’s face, she understood why. Where Camigwen glowed, Sioned looked almost fragile, her flaming hair seeming to have drawn all the color from her cheeks and lips. Urival had not said much, but he had mentioned something about drugged wine. Tobin cursed the absent High Prince.