Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince (71 page)

During the clearer days of autumn Ianthe had often strolled the battlements of Feruche, almost as if she knew Sioned would be watching. Her sons were usually with her and Sioned wondered bitterly why the Goddess had seen fit to give such wealth to such a woman. As Ianthe’s pregnancy advanced, the envy was sometimes more than Sioned could stand. But now Ianthe’s burden was too heavy to permit much walking. She slept uneasily in the huge bed with its dragon tapestries, for Rohan’s son rode restlessly in her womb. Envy turned to hate when Sioned caught sight of the great emerald sparkling from her finger. Ianthe was in possession of things not rightfully her own, and Sioned’s need to claim what was hers became a demand that threatened to destroy her hard-won balance.

For some days after plans were confirmed for the journey to Feruche, Sioned lapsed into a strange, waiting silence. Tobin understood; as her own birthing-times had neared, she had grown detached, all thoughts and feelings directed inward. Sioned’s womb might be empty, but she was going through pregnancy as surely as Ianthe.

One early winter night at moonrise, as clouds brushed the northern horizon, the alarm Sioned had been waiting for flushed servants out of bed at Feruche. Lingering long enough on moonlight to be sure this was no false labor, she smiled with an odd mixture of envy and satisfaction as Ianthe’s body arched in agonized spasms. Then she returned to Stronghold and sent for Tobin and Ostvel.

“She’s early by forty days,” Sioned told them when they came to her rooms, sleep-rumpled and apprehensive. “I felt she might be. We leave tonight.”

Soon thereafter three riders on Chay’s best horses were galloping north. Pale figures on pale horses, they rode in silence and made swift progress through the night made dazzling by three full moons. Sioned alone showed no fear. Tobin, schooled over the summer and autumn by Sioned in certain
faradhi
techniques, kept her mind busy reviewing what she had been taught but could not banish the intermittent quivers that ran through her body. Ostvel clenched and unclenched his fingers around his sword hilt, unable to protest and unable to stay behind. Neither of them dared speak to the woman who rode between them with her body straining eagerly forward, her green eyes blazing.

Sioned took the lead during the day through hills where, earlier in the year, dragons had basked and battled and mated. She had used this back approach to Feruche before, but this time was sure of the path. In spring she had mistaken the way. The dark nightmare of that lonely journey had merged into the horror of Feruche and the return to Stronghold. But though this trip also had something dreamlike about it; everything seemed outlined in bright Fire like a conjure, with all the singing colors of her gifts making her lightheaded.

Ten measures from Feruche they stopped, just beyond the first sentries, to rest for a little while after the long day’s fast ride. After dismounting and securing the horses, they walked the last of the road as night gathered behind them. The castle came within sight above the rocky hills, bathed in winter sun, its towers crowned by a golden glow that seeped down the walls like honey. Sioned paused for a moment to contemplate the beauty of Feruche, recalling that Rohan had promised it would be hers one day. And so it would, she told herself.
This
day.

Sounds of revelry came from within the keep, drunken celebration of the princess’ safe delivery of her son. Sioned listened, a tiny smile touching her mouth from time to time. She was aware of Tobin and Ostvel standing behind her, waiting nervously. In her own mind she conjured up Maeta’s instructions of that spring, seeing her as surely as if the warrior was with her now.

“There’s not a castle in the Desert I don’t know inside and out—and more to the point, how to
get
inside from out. There are more secrets here at Stronghold than just this grotto passage, but we’ll talk about them another time. Let me tell you about Feruche.”

Sioned closed her eyes, visualizing the hidden entry, the corridors carved out of the rock, the twists and turns she had memorized but had not yet used. At their end was the upper hallway leading to Ianthe’s chamber. A shudder ran through her, but she was not afraid. She felt nothing.

“Sioned. . . .”

Tobin’s whisper turned her head, and she nodded slowly. “Yes. It’s time I finished my work here.”

She led them forward in the shadows below the sunlight, out of sight of the guardpost where she had been captured before. She had no worries about that this time; all of Feruche celebrated Ianthe’s fourth son, and the stones outside the castle were silent. She moved around the curtain wall to the place where castle and cliff joined. A chink in the stone. A thin knife blade inserted to work the invisible catch. A moment when Ostvel’s breath quickened with fear that the mechanism was too old and too long unused to function.

The slab of rough-hewn rock slid soundlessly aside. Sioned slipped through first, concentrated for an instant, and produced a finger of Fire to see by. As Tobin and Ostvel moved into the narrow passage beside her, she inspected the workings of the entry. They had not been touched in Goddess alone knew how long, but the builders’ skill had been such that the system of weights and catches still functioned perfectly.

The miniscule flame lit their way through the shoulder-wide passage, glanced off long-empty sconces rusting on the walls. The floor sloped up, turned sharply, then descended, and in places rotting planks had been set over water seeping in from the underground spring that allowed Feruche to live. But there were no rats, no webs, not the slightest sign or whisper of life here.

At last there was another weighted stone door, and they emerged cautiously into a place Sioned recognized only too well. She had been held in a cell here, away from the light. A quiver chased down her backbone as the nightmare of colorlessness flickered through her memory, and she coaxed the fingerflame a little higher, a little brighter.

“Who’s there?”

Tobin caught back a gasp and exchanged a wild glance with Ostvel, who drew his sword with a sharp hiss of steel. Sioned seemed not to notice. She walked forward as the guard appeared from around a corner.

He choked and blanched in the glow of Sunrunner’s Fire. “You!”

“Yes,” she murmured. “I remember you, too.” She pointed one long, ringless finger at him, and a new Fire sprouted a handspan from his chest. He flattened himself against the wall, eyes huge and staring, mouth open in a soundless scream.

“Sioned—” Ostvel put a hand on her arm. She shrugged him off, smiling; there was that in her eyes that made him swallow hard. But he stepped forward and sunk his blade into the man’s throat. The guard slid down the wall, still staring, dead.

Sioned whirled on Ostvel, fury in her face. He wiped his blade and met her gaze without flinching. “No one can know we’ve been here—not if this is to work. Anyone who sees us must die—and I won’t let you do the killing,
faradhi.
”

The look in her eyes frightened Tobin. She had seen it in Chay’s eyes this spring, that dark glitter that meant death. She gripped Sioned’s hand and would not let her pull free. “Ostvel is right. Sioned, we must hurry.”

The fire-gold head nodded once. She said nothing as she drew her fingers from Tobin’s, let the Fire flicker out, and started for the stairs. Tobin traded another worried glance with Ostvel—who had not put up his sword.

Feruche’s reputation as a castle that could not be taken had made its guards careless. The few not partaking of the wine-soaked celebrations were easy to avoid; Tobin created soft breaths of Air that distracted attention by ruffling a tapestry or rattling a window. Sioned paid no attention, confident that the guards Tobin did not distract, Ostvel would silence permanently. But the sword tasted no new blood on the way to Ianthe’s chambers.

Sioned paused at a high window overlooking the courtyard, light from the central bonfire down below blazing across her face. Tobin grabbed Ostvel’s arm as Sioned’s hands lifted slightly.

“Sioned—no!” Tobin exclaimed.

An unnatural light appeared beyond the windows, the gold and crimson of Sunrunner’s Fire. Tobin stared in horror at the out-building directly below, its wooden roof alight. Sparks blew onto the next roof and the next, leaping with terrible hunger. Ordinary fire would not have caught so swiftly, but Sunrunner’s Fire flared and grew. The screams of alarm began, the panic. Sioned smiled slightly.

“Damn you!” Ostvel cried. “The balconies will catch! Sioned, you fool!”

“There has to be Fire,” she said softly, and turned from the conflagration and the screams of drunken panic in the courtyard, heading unerringly for Ianthe’s chambers.

Roelstra’s daughter lay in her dragon-tapestried bed, weak from the birthing, sobbing for help. A cradle rocked silently in a corner, but the woman who tended the child was gone—and with reason, for the flames were clearly visible at the windows now, even so high in the tower. Stairs leading up the inner walls had caught, and a wooden balcony three floors below was now afire. As smoke filtered into the chamber, the baby began to cry.

Ianthe’s pleas for help became screams of rage. Sioned ignored her. She went to the cradle where the infant lay, blond as sunlight. “Sweet Goddess,” she breathed, almost afraid to touch him. One finger, hesitant and shy, across his cheek. “Shh,” she whispered. “I’m here now, little one.”

Ianthe pushed herself upright and shrieked, “Get away from my son!”

“
My
son,” Sioned answered softly. She lifted the boy and held him to her heart, lips caressing the golden down covering his head. He stopped whimpering and snuggled close. “My son, now and forever.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Ianthe struggled to rise, moaned, fell back onto her pillows. “Take your hands off him! You wouldn’t dare steal him from me!”

“It was you who stole this child from my husband’s body.” Sioned faced the princess, holding the baby closer, tucking the blanket around him. “I’m returning to him what’s his—and mine.”

“I’ll have you burned in your own Fire! Guards!” she screamed in a voice already hoarse from earlier cries.
“Guards!”

“Be quiet,” Sioned murmured absently, stroking the child’s plump cheek with one finger.

Tobin came to her side, staring at the boy as if not quite able to comprehend his reality. “Oh, Sioned,” she whispered. “He’s
beautiful
. . . .”

“And mine.” Sioned held him so Ostvel could see.

“Give him to me,” Ostvel said.

“You bitch!” Ianthe howled. “I’ll kill you myself, with my own hands—”

Sioned backed away as Ostvel reached for the child. “No! He’s mine!”

“Did you think I’d give him back to
her
?” he snapped, taking the baby. Firmly and quickly he stripped off the velvet blanket. It fell to the carpet in a splash of gold-shot violet. “No son of Rohan’s wears Roelstra’s colors.”

The smoke was thicker now. Ianthe found strength in panic, rising naked from the bed. Her fingers dug into the curtains, features contorted into a mask of fury as she clung to a post for support. “You’ll die for this, all of you!”

Sioned walked slowly to her, pried the clawing fingers from the hangings. “You have something else that belongs to me, Ianthe.” The princess tried to slap her, but Sioned was swifter and stronger. She caught a wrist and twisted it. Ianthe groaned and collapsed onto the bed, cursing as Sioned wrenched the emerald from her finger and returned it to its rightful place on her own hand.

Ianthe surged up again, her eyes slits of rage. “You dare take my son? You whore! I’ll butcher him while you and Rohan watch!”

“A mother’s love,” Ostvel said.

Ianthe swayed to her feet. “Did Rohan tell you how it was?” she shouted at Sioned. “Did he tell you how he made love to me here in this bed? He’s mine now, and his son with him! The way it should have been from the first!”

Sioned suddenly backhanded her, and the emerald tore a gash across the perfect cheek. Ianthe fell back onto the pillows, fear in her eyes now. Sioned spent a moment enjoying it, then turned. Tobin had taken the baby and wrapped him in her tunic. The child whimpered fretfully, smoke stinging his nose.

“Hush, little one,” Tobin soothed, rocking him. “Little prince.”

“Sioned, we’ve got to hurry,” Ostvel warned. “The Fire—”

“Yes,” she said, looking at Ianthe again. “The Fire.”

The princess spat defiantly, “You couldn’t kill me before, Sunrunner, and you won’t now! You’re—”

“I am what I have to be. Did you stay to watch your father ignite his mistress’ bed, Ianthe?” Sioned slapped her again as she lurched up from the bed. “My Fire is of a different kind.”

She held her hands out so Ianthe could watch them, the emerald a seething reflection of the flames outside the windows. Sioned smiled at the terror in Ianthe’s dark eyes. Hate was a wonderful, living thing in her guts, giving her power beyond anything she had ever felt. Sweet and hot and potent, the hate wove its magic through her with threads of blackened sunlight, stitching together her need to kill and her delight in Ianthe’s mortal fear.

But all at once the princess drew herself straight and looked to the child Tobin held. Sioned saw triumph in her face, laughter in her eyes. Sioned longed to strike her again, but there were better ways of killing her and the emerald blazed in response as Sioned sought the Fire within it. She gathered herself to wrap flames around the smirking, victorious princess.

A lean flash of fire-shrouded steel suddenly quenched itself in Ianthe’s breast. She grasped it with a cry that was more surprise than pain. A flicker of comprehension lit her eyes before all light fled them forever, and she sank back, taking the sword with her, hands clasped feebly around its hilt.

Ostvel slid his sword from the dead woman and wiped the blade on a fistful of bed hangings. He met Sioned’s rage without apology, his face set in stone.

“It’s over, Sunrunner,” he said.