Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince (69 page)

“Wonderful,” Davvi muttered. “Now we have no way of knowing what happens in Tiglath.”

“Walvis must have good reasons,” Tilal said in defense of his idol.

“I wish I knew what they were,” Rohan said.

“
I
wish we knew what passes on the sunlight between Stronghold and Tiglath,” Chay remarked.

“You think my sister has something to do with this?”

“Davvi, I think Sioned has something to do with nearly everything. And I thank the Goddess who made her that my Tobin can only listen on the sunlight, not ride it.” He took the sting out of his words with a smile at his son.

“But Father, you always say Mother’s more closely related to the Storm God,” Maarken replied pertly.

“That she is. And so are you.” He rose, stretched and ruffled the boy’s hair. “I’ve a tour to make of the lines, squire.”

“Yes, my lord. But when Lleyn’s ships arrive, may I please be excused from inspecting them with you?”

“More likely I’ll dump you in one and send you on a grand tour of all the princedoms to complete your education!”

“Father! How would it look for the next Lord of Radzyn to be seen puking from one end of the continent to the other?”

Chay growled affectionately at him and pushed him out of the tent. Rohan watched them go, smiling, then leaned back in his chair and addressed Davvi in all seriousness.

“This is your part of the world. When will the heavy rains come and how long will they last?”

“Soon—and perhaps until spring.” He traced the storms’ usual route on the map spread before them. “We’ll know when the river begins to rise that the bad ones have come to the Veresch and Meadowlord. Are you equipped for winter quarters?”

“Well enough.” He got to his feet, paced, caught himself at it, and scowled. “What will Roelstra do? Will he withdraw for the winter? If he does, should we? We could take ship when Lleyn’s people arrive and go to the relief of Tiglath. Or we could stay and wait, and take the first chance to march and establish you at High Kirat.”

Davvi shifted uneasily. “I would rather not be beholden to you there, my lord, if you’ll take no offense. I’d like to fight that battle myself.”

Rohan smiled, pleased by the answer. “I thought you might. And I doubt you’ll get much resistance. Another season of Roelstra and the
athr’im
of Syr will be only too glad to have you.”

“I realize you have first claim, Rohan, but leave me just a little piece of him, won’t you? Although I think I may have to fight Chay for a place at the front of the line.”

“Ah, no. He and I have a good understanding. He’s going to hold my cloak. I’m afraid there won’t be anything left of the High Prince. I hope you’re not too disappointed,” he finished dryly. Sitting back down at the desk, he stared at the map unrolled before him. “Rain,” he murmured. “We see very little of it at Stronghold, you know. We’re on the wrong side of the Vere Hills for it. Radzyn and the other coastal holdings get a sea-squall now and then, and it’s been known to flood and even snow in the far north.”

“You’ll get more rain here than you ever wanted to see.” Davvi gave his son a playful nudge. “And you’ll have to get used to it again after the Desert.”

“Can we go hunting? And take my lord with us?”

“We’ll show him the delights of getting soaked to the bone in pursuit of a single skinny elk!”

They laughed, obviously sharing memories. Rohan forced a smile, wondering if he would always be surrounded by loving fathers and their adoring sons, and hated himself for the petulance. He traced one finger along the map from the Faolain to Feruche, where Ianthe’s son was growing within her body.
His
son, whom Sioned had seen in
faradhi
vision.

Tobin and Ostvel stop her? He had fooled himself with that only for as long as it had taken to ride here from Stronghold. But since then he had made plans. He would end the war as quickly as he could and then raze Feruche. Ianthe would die and the child with her.

Could he kill his own unborn son?

Rohan sank into moody silence, and did not notice that Davvi and Tilal had left him alone.

Andrade, caged with a sly little girl, a sharp-tongued Sunrunner, and a passel of witless servants, counted off the dismal days of autumn with even less patience than she had numbered those of summer. The Storm God was having a good laugh, amusing himself with sheeting rain and endless clouds that frustrated all
faradhi
communication.

But at least she had accomplished one thing before the storms, she told herself one gray afternoon in Lady Wisla’s solar. Davvi was Prince of Syr in all but formal acclaim. That Roelstra controlled High Kirat and Princess Gemma within it, and that the full roster of princes had not yet affirmed Davvi, only made her shrug. She could call a convocation of princes anytime she pleased. Her predecessor had done it to ratify the Treaty of Linse that had given the Desert to Zehava’s line “for as long as the sands spawn fire.” She toyed with the notion of calling such a meeting now, at River Run, but decided that the risk of Roelstra’s armies at the gates was not worth the amusement it would give her to see the princes arrive, soaked and irritable, at her whim.

Chafing her hands together, she stood before the hearth and scowled. One small accomplishment, acknowledging Davvi as Prince of Syr, did not weigh equally against interminable days of nothing. Boredom was the worst—that, and her bitter aversion to Chiana. The girl had grown this summer in one of those startling bursts some children experience. At barely six, she looked and behaved more like a child of ten. Each sight of her reminded Andrade of her sister, and how Pandsala was serving Roelstra with all the cunning of her breed and all the skills of her three
faradhi
rings.

As if called up by her thoughts, Chiana came dancing into the solar, bright and blooming. She swept Andrade a mocking curtsy and sang out, “My father’s come to fetch me! Look over the walls and you’ll see hundreds of his soldiers, all of them come to rescue me!”

Andrade pressed her lips closed and left the room for the hallway, where wide windows opened onto the courtyard. Urival was down below, and as he raised his head on sensing her presence, she saw the truth written in his face. Chiana was giggling and pirouetting beside her, and it was all Andrade could do not to slap her.

“How many are there?” the child cried out eagerly. “Two hundred? Three?”

“Be silent!” Andrade hissed, and went down to meet Urival in the foyer. Chiana scampered along behind her, still laughing.

The steward’s face was bitter as he reported, “Sixty of the High Prince’s troops seem intent on setting up camp outside in the mud.”

“A little late, isn’t he? Why didn’t he try this during summer?”

“You know him better than I,” Urival snapped.

“I know him better than I want to. Sixty, you say?”

“They’ll attack and kill you and I’ll be free!” Chiana crowed. “I’ll never have to go back to that horrid keep again!”

“Silence!”

“You’ve lost! You’re nothing, and I’m a princess!”

Urival took a step toward her, eyes like thunder, but Andrade was closer and swifter. She grabbed the child’s arm roughly. “Listen to me! I helped birth you, and watched while your precious father nearly ordered your death! You want to go to him, Chiana? All he lacks is yet another daughter! Would you like to be shut up at Castle Crag with all the rest?”

“Ianthe is free—and she has her own castle! Pandsala—”

“Used you,” Andrade told her. “It’s the thing your family does best. Ianthe is valuable to him for her cunning, and Pandsala for her rings. But you? Of useless daughters he has more than enough! He has no use for you!”

“He’s come for me!” Chiana screamed, breaking loose to flee out into the courtyard, masses of auburn hair streaming out behind her.

Andrade and Urival followed much more slowly. Neither spoke; there was nothing to say until they had heard what the troop’s captain demanded. He had evidently been waiting for Andrade’s appearance on the walls; riding confidently forward, he saluted her with all due ceremony. His words were polite and precise: he had been ordered by the High Prince to secure River Run from possible attack by the traitorous Lord Davvi, who had forfeited all rights to this holding by his actions.

“I assume you refer to Prince Davvi of Syr,” Andrade replied pleasantly.

“The High Prince does not recognize that title. He does, however, offer you his protection. Should you wish to leave River Run, we have orders to provide escort back to Goddess Keep.”

Urival whispered, “Now, why does Roelstra want us gone from here?”

Andrade called down from the battlements, “I find one cage very like another. And I am
not
partial to them.”

The captain smiled winningly. “And where else would you go, my Lady? Between you and the Desert lies the High Prince—and a rather substantial river you’d rather not cross, I’m sure. There’s nothing for you in the north, and the Catha Hills to the south are hard traveling in any weather. Your only choice is Goddess Keep, and I’m quite willing to provide escort.”

“Too kind,” Andrade sneered. “But perhaps you’ve not seen Sunrunner’s Fire kindled.”

“Should you attempt it, I will take River Run, along with River View.” He was no longer smiling. “And leave
you
alive.”

His meaning was clear enough, and she ground her teeth. She had only her powers to defend this place, and if she used them Lady Wisla and the people of two keeps would die. “There is the sunlight,” she bluffed.

“Of course,” he agreed readily. “And ride it as you will, my Lady, there is also me.” He bowed an end to the conversation and rode back to his camp.

“I hope he drowns in mud,” Andrade muttered.

“We could escape,” Urival said. “A circle of Fire around the keep—”

“For how long? Would he see it and ride off in terror? Here we are and here we stay. I won’t go back to Goddess Keep and be even farther away from things.”

“Assuming, of course, you’d live long enough to get there.”

“Precisely. There has to be some way out of this.”

Urival shook his head. “All summer you’ve been able to ride away if and when you pleased. Now that there are troops outside to prevent us, you want to leave at once. My Lady, I will never understand the workings of your mind.” He paused. “But I believe Roelstra does.”

Andrade gave him a sharp look. “Do you mean he intends for me—”

“—to give him an excuse.” Urival nodded. “But there
is
the sunlight.”

“And to whom? Maarken, who would tell Rohan and Chay and give them one more worry? Sioned, who won’t listen? Tobin, who sits in Stronghold as helpless as we? Or maybe you had Pandsala in mind! Now,
that’s
a brilliant notion!”

He took her elbow and escorted her back down the stairs. “I
was
thinking of someone, actually. Meath.”

Andrade gaped at him. “Sweet Goddess! Of course!” So enchanted was she by the idea that she didn’t even mind the lecture he gave her about thinking everyone but herself a fool when she was the biggest fool of them all.

Rohan fought the impulse to pace as he watched Maarken. The boy sat on a folding stool, thin winter sunlight woven all around him. His eyes were closed, brow furrowed in concentration. Chay stood nearby, his back turned to the sight of his son in communication with another
faradhi.
Rohan had little patience for Chay’s uneasiness with his son’s abilities, though he understood its cause. But what had happened to Tobin six years ago had occurred only because she was untrained. Maarken would become an accomplished
faradhi
—as would Andry. Chay had better get used to the idea.

Six years, he thought, since he had watched Sunrunners call the wind to disperse the ashes of his father and the dragon out over the Desert. Would Zehava approve of what he was doing now? Probably. Zehava had never had any illusions about the world or the people who lived in it, unlike his son, who was only now discovering that all his pretty plans and notions were useless. Yet some impulse toward them stirred again as he watched Maarken. New generations should not have to fight the same battles their fathers had. There should be something more for the children, he told himself, something better for Maarken and Sorin and Andry—and his own son.

Hiding a wince, he turned as Tilal and Davvi approached calling his name. He held up a hand for quiet and went to them.

“My lord—wonderful news! The ships are here!”

Davvi hushed his son with a glance. “They’ve sailed as far as they can up the Faolain, and are now off-loading troops and supplies. They sent a rider ahead to inform you, my lord.”

Chay turned, a broad smile on his face. “Not ships—bridges!”

“Huh?” Rohan stared at him.

“Think about it,” he advised. Putting a hand on Tilal’s shoulder, he went on, “Take me there. We have plans to make.”

Dayvi looked to Rohan for an explanation the prince was rapidly reasoning out. Bridges? Roelstra had drawn his troops back across the river in obvious mimicry of Rohan’s summer tactic, and was camped on a large plain suitable for pitched battle. Rohan might have succumbed to the temptation but for one thing: Maarken had left the two bridges usable, after a few repairs, and Roelstra would be expecting the Desert host to cross in exactly those places. If Rohan had learned nothing else about war from Zehava and Chay, he knew that behaving as the enemy expected was the surest path to defeat. Thus he had declined to accept Roelstra’s invitation to cross the Faolain and be slaughtered.

But now Lleyn’s ships had arrived, and Chay seemed to have ideas for them. In Davvi’s face he saw the same conclusion appear, and shrugged. “I very much doubt that the masters of those ships are going to appreciate demotion to captains of ferryboats.”

Davvi snorted. “They’ll live.”

Rohan smiled slightly and began another comment, but from behind him he heard the squelch of something falling into the mud. He turned quickly to find Maarken pushing himself up from the ground, dazed of expression and glazed of eye. Rohan and Davvi helped the young man up.