Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince (61 page)

“Yes,” Chay told him. “I’m glad Lleyn acted so quickly—not only in the matter of archers, but in sending you to me.” He glanced at Tobin. “There’s no excuse now for you not to go to Stronghold. Maarken can be squire and Sunrunner both.”

“Meath and Eolie have taught me enough for a first ring, Mother,” Maarken said as Tobin’s brows knotted. “They’re going to ask Lady Andrade for permission to give me the token and further training. I can do what you can do—really I can.”

Chay watched emotions battle on his wife’s face: irritation that she had been deprived of her reason for staying here, pride in her son, sadness that she would have so little time with him before she left tomorrow. But all she said was, “If Meath has had the foresight to make your colors known—”

“The
faradhi
in Tiglath knows. He can tell others. You can go to Stronghold with a clear conscience, Mother.”

Chay coughed to cover laughter. Conscience had not been keeping Tobin here, but it would certainly take her to Stronghold.

“So. Your father has managed to get his own way. As usual.”

Her capitulation was enough; Chay had learned long since not to gloat about his rare victories over her. It was the surest way to ignite her considerable temper and her incredible stubbornness. So he changed the subject. “I’d like you to talk with Andry before tomorrow, Maarken. Twice now he’s been caught in a
faradhi
weaving and he doesn’t understand it. You’ve learned enough from Meath and Eolie to explain it to him.”

“It is kind of scary the first few times,” Maarken said with all the wisdom of one earned but unworn Sunrunner’s ring. Chay reflected that from now on he would have to treat his son not as a little boy, but as a man, and had a moment of poignant regret for the child Maarken had been. He could have asked for no better companion than the youth he saw before him now—scarcely eleven winters old yet behaving exactly as a princess’ son ought. Still. . . .

“I’ll get some clothes on,” Tobin said, “and we’ll go find the boys.” She disappeared behind a tall screen in a corner of the room.

Maarken regarded his father thoughtfully. “Shall I really be your squire?”

“I assume Lleyn and his son Chadric have trained you adequately.”

The boy nodded. “But does it mean I can go to war at your side? Not just sit in your tent?”

Chay heard Tobin make a soft sound.
Goddess help me,
he thought.
I don’t want my boys to grow up and go to battle so young. Rohan is right—and this must be the last war. If only Sioned can free him so he can fight it, and never fight another—

“Father?”

“Yes, Maarken. I doubt you’ll do much sitting around in my tent.”

Night again, hot and close. The sixth night since Ianthe. Rohan turned away from the dinner laid out for him. Food, wine, even water were suspect. He trusted neither his tongue nor his nose, for everything tasted and smelled of
dranath
to him. He was over the worst of it, having eaten in the last few days only those things he considered least dangerous—unsliced fruit from which he peeled the skin, dragontail cactus root washed clean of its sauces, a few other things. His stomach growled at times with emptiness, but he had no other way of ensuring that he ingested no more of the drug. He found it ironic that the
dranath
that had saved his dragons was so great a danger to him.

Yet he could not attribute his actions solely to the confusion of the drug and the fever from his wound. His glance went to the corner where he had piled the obscene bed-hangings and the tapestry. He had yanked them down after Ianthe had left him, shamed and furious at the memories they evoked, wishing he was a
faradhi
so he could set them afire. But he was not allowed so much as a single candle, let alone the means to light one. The weavings were useless to him in any escape attempt, for his chamber overlooked the courtyard from seven floors up. He intended to die only if he could take Ianthe with him.

She had been careful and clever. There was nothing sharp in the room, not even knife or fork to use in eating. Neither was there anything heavy enough to fell her or thin enough to twist into an effective garotte. All he had were his hands—his guilty, betraying hands that should have throttled the life from her six nights ago. He should have killed her then.

He wondered when she would come to him again, or if. He had seen no one but the brawny guard who brought his food, a man who made two of Rohan. He occupied himself in keeping track of the movements outside his windows, the timing of meals, changes of the guard, numbers of troops and servants. He had worked on the lock for two days to no avail. His guard had taken away the heavy bronze curtain rods; there was no furniture but the bed to break into a weapon; nothing in the entire chamber he could use. Escape was not one of his options.

Surely someone should have come for him by now. An attempt to parley, an attack on the castle, anything. He despised himself for looking to others for help, but there was no other hope. He began to be filled with a distracting horror that his own capture was only a small piece of a more elaborate plan, that everyone else was either prisoner or dead. Caged and restless, he paced the bare stone floor night after night, conjuring in his head not only the destruction of Feruche but of Castle Crag and all Princemarch. Himself at the head of the Desert armies, he laid waste to the land, exacting his vengeance. And the High Prince he executed with his own sword while the other princes and lords looked on and trembled at this demonstration of Rohan’s power.

Pretty thoughts, he told himself bitterly. A life lived by the sword, dealing out death. Land scorched and dead, thousands killed, more thousands homeless. So much for his ideals. All the splendid childish conceits of his youth sifted away like windblown sand, and he watched them disappear without any emotion but shame.

Not at their passing, or at letting them go. Shame that he had ever deluded himself in the first place. Life was not civilized. People were not disposed to follow the rule of law. They were all barbarians, and Rohan knew himself for the worst of the lot. He was a prince with the power of Desert courage and dragon wealth at his command. He had fooled himself that he was better than the others, him with his noble aims and high ambitions. At least the others had always known themselves for what they were. At least they were honest about life, looked it in the face, and did their killing without illusions.

Roelstra had the truth of it. Pit everyone against each other and collect the spoils. Rule through divisiveness and cunning. Work for dissension, not cooperation. Prey on and play on the baser emotions—greed, jealousy, cowardice—and laugh at the foolish princeling who wanted to inspire minds to honor and hearts to peace.

And of the woman who had believed with Rohan, whose steady intelligence and faith in him had reinforced his belief in himself, he dared not think at all. In betraying her he had betrayed all, for Roelstra’s daughter had the truth of
him.
He was the same as the High Prince, the same as every man who wished to see himself reborn. He craved a son. That first time with Ianthe, that might be excused. But the second, when he had known who she was and what she wanted of him—there could be no pardon for that.

Oh, yes, he was just like all the rest, all the self-centered barbarian princes who killed first and gloated later. But even as his mind supplied satisfying scenes of the High Prince dead beneath his sword, Rohan never conjured up Ianthe. He knew very well why. He would not kill her. Could not.

The clattering of hooves and swords in the courtyard took him to the window. Shouts echoed up the castle walls to his aerie. The massive gates, stone hinged by ancient bronze, swung outward with a sickening groan. He could not see who or what caused the commotion, only the knot of guards moving into the main yard.

“The rings!” someone shouted. “They’re helpless without them!” The knot untied itself with the struggle, and then one of the soldiers gave a crow of triumph. “I’ve got ’em!
Faradhi
rings!”

“Oh, sweet Goddess, no,” Rohan whispered.

Ianthe strode down the steps in a swirl of pale gown and streaming dark hair. “You idiots!” she spat. “Believing in that old tale! Give those rings to me at once! And keep an eye on her!”

The guard lost his swagger and approached his lady, bowing humbly as he placed the rings in her hand. Torchlight caught the sparkle of gold and silver and a great emerald before Ianthe gripped the rings tightly in her fist. She gestured and the guards fell back to reveal a straight, slender woman in riding clothes, her red-gold hair tumbled around her face.

“So you’ve come to claim your princeling,” Ianthe said sweetly. “How devoted. How loving. I’d expected half an army—but you were all that could be spared, I daresay. Your Desert armies are busy elsewhere, aren’t they?”

She half turned, lifting her face to Rohan’s window. He ducked back into the shadows, unwilling to give her the satisfaction of seeing his stricken face. “Do you hear me, Rohan? With the Merida attacking in the north and my father in the south, this is all they can spare to come for you! And you their prince!”

Instead of shocking him into frozen horror, the information burned his soul. He understood now, and the fury sent tremors through his very bones. Only Sioned, only his Sunrunner princess—who would not have made this journey in order to die with him. He knew her too well. Hope stirred for the first time, and the old confidence welled up, sweet water to a man half-dead of thirst. He and she together could do anything.

But there was Ianthe. Rohan stared down at Sioned from the shadows, saw her weary face uplifted, eyes seeking but not finding him.

“Ianthe!” she called out, and the princess turned from the castle steps. “I
have
come for my lord and husband—but I’ve also come for
you.
” And all at once a great gout of Sunrunner’s Fire sprang up in front of her, a twisting column of flame half the height of Feruche itself. And in the fire there appeared a dragon, gleaming crimson and gold.

No one screamed; throats contracted in terror as the
faradhi
worked her arcane magic, her long fingers naked of rings. But whatever else Ianthe was, she was no coward. She faced down the towering Fire and cried out, “Stop—or I’ll have him killed now, tonight, with his own sword!”

The flames wavered, died. Ianthe laughed. “Take her to an inner room where no sunlight or moonlight reaches! Don’t fear, Sunrunner—I’ll give him back to you soon!”

Rohan closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the rough wall. Soon—when she was certain she carried his child, and could flaunt the fact to Sioned. Son or not, he would kill her. And the child, too.

A
ndrade knew it had to be a dream. Roelstra and Ianthe and Pandsala, dressed in dark violet cloaks, held her hands to a Fire of her own conjuring. When they pulled her away from the flames, her arms ended in blackened stumps at the wrists. The High Prince and Ianthe then reached into the Fire and salvaged the hands. Pandsala gathered up rings and bracelets, thin chains shivering. With ritual solemnity they circled around the blaze, gave the hands to a shadowy figure beyond the light. And within the depths of a voluminous cloak Andrade saw her own wrists and palms and fingers merge into those of someone unknown. Pandsala slid the jeweled rings onto the fingers, clasped the bracelets around the wrists, attached the delicate chains. A gesture of those hands, and the Fire rose powerfully, flung itself around Ianthe, who vanished into nothingness. The white-gold flames then formed a gleaming sword that pierced Roelstra’s flesh; he, too, was taken by Fire, gone forever. But Pandsala remained, head bowed in submission to the unknown who wore Andrade’s
faradhi
rings, had mastered all the power they symbolized—and was unafraid to use that power to kill.

There the dream ended, and she woke to the sounds of the forest shifting around her. Sitting up, she gulped in the clean morning air, knowing it was foolish to inspect her hands—and inspecting them anyway. She believed in prophetic dreams only when it suited her. This one was best forgotten as quickly as she could.

She attempted to distract herself with the details of her surroundings. Urival slept uneasily nearby, wrapped in his cloak on the hard ground. Two other forms curled on the other side of the dead fire. Trees screened the first sunlight, hazy through the blue-green mists rising from the river. Andrade rubbed her back that ached from having to sit her horse like a sack of grain in aid of her disguise as Pandsala’s servant. Five days of it had left her sore in self-image as well as in body, and both gave her the source of her dream. Her hands were stiff, the joints laced with hot needles; she still smarted with the indignity of having to pocket her rings and bracelets until Lord Lyell’s men were taken care of; fury seethed within at Roelstra, Ianthe, and especially Pandsala for putting her in this humiliating position. But that shadowy figure, unidentifiable even as male or female, still troubled her.

There were simple cures for morning aches and dream phantoms. Andrade pushed herself to her feet, wincing as her bones protested the morning damp and chill, and walked down to the river. Exercise gradually warmed her muscles as she sought convenient shallows for washing, and the cold water cleared her head. She shook droplets from her face and hands, rebraided her hair, and felt more equal to dealing with an intransigent world.

Or at least to learning what new inconveniences it had in store for her today. Goddess knew, the last five days had been bad enough. In addition to Pandsala, she had had to endure Chiana’s presence on the road from Goddess Keep, for the girl had somehow managed to secure a horse and ride out with them. Discovery had come too late. Taking seriously Chiana’s whispered threat to expose the whole scheme to Lord Lyell’s men, Andrade had gritted her teeth and rebuked herself silently for having taken the brat in to begin with. But it had been too late for self-recrimination, as well.