Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince (59 page)

“No, little prince,” Ianthe laughed, gleeful, breathless, wrapped around him like a snake. “You know who I am and what I want—what
you
want! Give it to me! Give me your son!”

Even as his flesh withered away from her, he felt it happening, knew she had won. She let him go. He staggered to his feet, clutching the bedpost, flung back the hangings on their metal rings—tapestries of dragons in all their violence and lust.

Ianthe moved languidly on the bed. Her legs were spread wide, her head thrown back, but her arms cradled her breasts as if a child already nursed there. The eagerness of her fertility would welcome the mindless gift of his—meeting, matching, fusing together inside her belly, creating a life that would be partly his and partly Ianthe’s. He understood now why time had been so important to her, why she needed him “capable.”

Long lashes lifted from eyes the color of dead leaves. “Sometimes it takes only once,” she purred. “But I won’t risk that. Come here to me, princeling. Be sure we’ve made a son.”

A
son.
“I’ll kill you,” he whispered.

“No, I don’t think so.” She laughed up at him. “Come, Rohan. You’ve already betrayed her. What would once more matter? I make sons, and she can’t even carry a child!”

Thighs splayed for him, arms held out, triumphant laughter. Something hideous lurched inside him, feeding on his hate, capable of killing. Ianthe laughed again as he dug his fingers into her throat. She writhed beneath him, hands grasping, guiding, greedy. Rage snarled through him and he loomed over her, tightening his grip. He drove himself into her in mindless fury, lifted one hand to strike her, laughing madly at the blood that streamed from her lip. She screamed then, a sound hoarse and frightened and shrill with lust. And he laughed again.

“You wanted me, Ianthe? Let’s see how much you want
this
!” He wallowed in her, spent himself in a vengeance that was her victory over him. He knew it, could not stop himself. He let it go on and on, setting the marks of his hate onto her flesh. When he was finished he fell to one side, nauseated by his own body, hating himself for not having the strength to kill her where she lay. But she had said something that made killing her impossible. She had spoken of a son.

It was a long time before she roused, bruised and bloodied, and slid out of bed. Rohan saw her fingers spread over the curve of her belly. She smiled down at him, raking her tangled hair back from her face, and licked the blood from her lips.

“My father makes only girls,” she said scornfully, her voice rough and throaty. “Your Sunrunner witch can’t even make those. Oh, she’ll get you back, Rohan, safe and sound—I need you alive to confirm that this child is yours.” She laughed again, enjoying his flinch. “You wanted me—all these years, ever since that night I came to you at the
Rialla,
you’ve wanted me. Don’t bother denying it. We both know it’s true. But you Chose Sioned. Tell me Rohan—could you touch her, after being with me?”

“No,” he whispered, though not in the manner she heard it. He could never touch Sioned again, not having befouled himself with Ianthe. He could still feel her on his skin, feel himself in her flesh.

The door locked heavily behind her. She had won—for now. When she returned, he would kill her. He must.

M
ost of the winter had seen Goddess Keep washed by torrential rains. Unpredictable cloud cover made
faradhi
communication sporadic at best. Andrade, irked at having to rely on more conventional means of learning the news, subjected visitors to questioning so intense they came away terrified. With the coming of spring, thick fog walled up the keep and the Sunrunners grew as restless as hawks denied flight. Thoroughly sick of reading, chess, lessons, cleaning, and each other’s company, they were united in avoiding Andrade with what amounted to religious devotion.

But at last the fog lifted and the sun shone, and the castle emptied of nearly every living creature—including the denizens of field and forest who had wintered in the castle and now went home.
Faradh’im
and apprentices and the keep’s ordinary folk roamed the hillsides, half-drunk on sunlight. Andrade, watching from the battlements, waited until they were all out of sight in the woods or along cliff paths before she undid her silver-gold braids and ran her fingers back through her hair, luxuriating in the warmth of spring sunshine. Her last walk here, some days ago, had been a depressing affair; the castle had been wrapped in the fog that was the Storm God’s last little joke after a long and unamusing winter. But now the Goddess had reclaimed the sky for her own.

Replaiting her hair, she grimaced at the streaks of white in it, swearing to herself that they had been caused by Roelstra’s impossible daughters. The impulse that had made her claim them six years ago was one she regretted daily.

Pandsala at twenty-three had been, for all her royal upbringing, abysmally ignorant. She had a certain cleverness that kept her from complete mental stagnation, but her formal learning was almost nil. She had not appreciated being sent to the schoolroom with the younger students, but the tactic had the double benefit of pounding a basic education into her skull while curing her of some of her more objectionable arrogances.

Pandsala at twenty-nine was a vast improvement. Discouraged in her attempts to dramatize her chosen role of captive princess, she had abandoned the effort and was now almost tolerable. But it was the shocking discovery of her potential as a Sunrunner that had supplied a needed sense of self-worth. Last summer she had earned her third ring.

Chiana was a different problem entirely. Adopted by the women at the keep, pitied her sorry lot, spoiled by almost everyone, she was quick of body, mind, and spirit. No one knew what she would get into next. To Roelstra’s fine aristocratic features and Palila’s wealth of auburn hair Chiana added her own winsome charm and a pair of green-brown eyes that could brim with slyness or tears at a moment’s notice. Andrade and Urival kept close watch on her, suspecting that her beguiling ways could turn to low cunning if she was not carefully guided.

Pandsala provided discipline. Seeing her sister as the cause of her own exile, she remained uncharmed and unbeguiled. Oddly enough, Chiana behaved, wishing for her elder sister’s good opinion, and a bond of sorts had grown between the two. This winter Pandsala had busied herself with teaching Chiana to read, and seemed more content with her lot.

Andrade wondered how long she would have to keep the pair with her. Despite the circumstances of her birth, Chiana would eventually be sought in marriage, and when Roelstra finally obliged everyone by dying, Pandsala would be free to do as she liked.

Thought of the High Prince reminded Andrade of why she had come up here today—not to breathe in the spring but to take a look at what was going on around her. She shook back her loosened hair and closed her eyes, the instinctive mental loom absorbing her thoughts, and she sighed with the pleasure of the weaving denied her every winter. Across the green downs of Ossetia she roamed, eastward to Gilad where flooded manors were being repaired; a glance for the Catha Hills where herds were being coaxed to rich grazing on the coast; an approving nod for the white sails of Lleyn’s ships plying regular trade routes again now that the danger of storm was gone. All was fine and fair in the south, and Andrade smiled her satisfaction.

For the sheer pleasure of it she followed the bright ribboning rivers to the north, sensing the sunlight cool as it danced across the water. Up to the lower hills of the Great Veresch Mountains she flew, pausing to admire the snow-capped peaks. Pleasure faded as she looked down at Castle Crag, and annoyance set in, quickly superceded by curiosity at the quiet of the place. Was Roelstra on progress somewhere? Off to one of his hunting lodges? She could see only a few daughters arranged languidly around the gardens, only a few servants, and barely enough troops to secure the gatehouse.

Andrade sped across the mountains, dazzled by the brilliance of white snow beneath her, then flung her skeins westward to Fessenden. A hard winter for them, too, she saw; snow still heavy on the ground, fishing boats huddled in the harbors, the port city of Einar shivering in the chill sunlight. She would gather reports soon from the Sunrunner assigned to the court there, and find out what help Lord Kuteyn’s widow needed to replenish her winter-ravaged lands.

A quick glance over Kierst-Isel heartened her; garrisons along the borders were at ease this spring where they normally bristled for the usual skirmishes. Memory of Rohan’s proposal of legally set boundaries made her smile; perhaps Volog and Saumer had at long last decided who owned what. A leap across the wide bay between the island and the mainland, and she was over a Meadowlord soggy with spring runoff. As often as she wondered why the ancient
faradh’im
had built Goddess Keep on this fog-bound coast, she gave thanks that they had not chosen the marshy lowland with their muggy summers and never-ending supply of insects.

Farther, to Syr that lay between rivers, rich land and fertile, the soil dark with new turning and planting—and a nostalgic glance at her own childhood home of Catha Freehold that had never belonged to any but her own family who had never bent the knee to any prince. On her father’s death it had reverted to Syr, for she had given up all claim to it and it was too far from the Desert for Zehava to rule effectively. The plain stone tower rose proud and white in a hollow between low hills, within sighting distance—for a
faradhi
on the wing—of Sioned’s family’s River Run. She paused to survey the huge holding, and frowned as she discovered that it, too, was nearly empty.

One place left to go today; snowbound Firon and Cunaxa could wait for another time. She wanted to see the Desert, look in on Stronghold and the Long Sand, possibly glimpse the two who ruled there as wisely and well as she had always known they would. But as she glided once more over Syrene fields, she saw tents. Horses. Archers and sword-soldiers drilling in strict formation. And on a rise overlooking the whole were two huge pavilions: one turquoise, one violet. Syr and Princemarch, camped not a day’s march from the Desert border.

Andrade hurried to Faolain Lowland, Lord Baisal’s holding that seethed with activity under Chaynal’s red-and-white battle flag. Fury stung her. Why had no one told her of this? And why were Rohan’s own colors not flying? And who belonged to that black and green flag set up in the fields outside the manor, where troops organized for war?

Though powerfully motivated to find Sioned and demand an explanation, Andrade returned instead to Goddess Keep. She would have to inform the other princes through her
faradh’im
at their courts. Yet as she passed over Lake Kadar, she gasped aloud in shock. Along the main road there marched a considerable force of men-at-arms, with officers on horseback and red-and-yellow pennants proclaiming them soldiers of young Lord Lyell of Waes. They were headed directly for Goddess Keep.

By nightfall Andrade’s anger had steadied into a slow, fierce hate. She called everyone into the hall and waited in an awful silence for all of them to assume their seats at the long tables, Urival and the senior
faradh’im
to one side of her, the others in descending order of rank all around.

“Troops belonging to Lord Lyell of Waes, betrothed now to the High Prince’s daughter Kiele, have set up his banner in a camp outside our gates. We are told it is for our protection. We are told Lord Lyell is concerned for our safety in these troubled times, with High Prince Roelstra and Prince Jastri of Syr camped near the Desert border and the Merida besieging Tiglath. We are told Lord Lyell takes on himself the duty of defending us. We are told he does this because he knows
faradh’im
are forbidden to kill, even in their own defense.” She paused and smiled grimly. “We are told many things—most of which are lies.

“Many of you have ridden the sunlight today, seeking information. Sometimes you have sought other
faradh’im
in vain, for they have been locked away out of the light by lords and princes allied to Roelstra. They are as captive as we are—and as Prince Rohan is at Feruche Castle.”

Most had not known of this, and a startled murmuring went through the assembly. Andrade held up both hands for silence.

“Of Princess Sioned, one of us, there is no word. I sought her myself and she is not to be found. But we know from the Sunrunner Kleve in Tiglath that the High Prince’s daughter Ianthe holds Prince Rohan.”

Urival, seated just beside her, muttered, “Not for long, if I know Sioned.”

Andrade tried to ignore the panic this remark brought to her heart. “Though we are free to weave the sunlight, we are pent in this keep. Urival and I have been discussing ways to free some of us in secret while the rest remain here, soothing Lord Lyell’s troops into thinking we are all still caged. We have—”

“I can do it.”

Andrade stared down the hall to where Pandsala had risen from her chair.

“I can free some of us,” the princess said. “Lyell’s men will not detain my father’s daughter in her escape from the keep.”

Urival sucked in a breath and Andrade cursed herself for not having thought of Pandsala earlier. Suspicions darted through her mind, but she let Urival voice them.

“Is this escape to be for our benefit—or yours?” he asked coldly.

“I understand your hesitation,” Pandsala replied. “It is true I would rather be out in the world. But I have had chances before and not taken them. Do you think I would give aid to my father, who sent me here against my will? He cast me out. You took me in. I wear three
faradhi
rings. If you do not trust me, do not use me.”

Urival would have questioned her further, but the dignity of her reply had impressed Andrade. She gestured her chief steward to silence, and said, “Tell me what you propose.”

The princess clasped her hands before her, not quite tightly enough to hide their excited tremors. “At dusk, when the light is uncertain and torches are needed, I and whomever you choose will leave by the postern gate. When we are within range of Lord Lyell’s camp, make an outcry here to encourage the idea that I have escaped with my friends.”