Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince (76 page)

“I don’t care about her or about what happened!” Chay snapped. “It’s Rohan who needs you, damn it!”

He pulled her up and helped her to walk. They crossed the faint dark line where Fire had risen. No one had yet dared cross into the circle. Roelstra’s people, seeing that the unthinkable had occurred and their prince had fallen, were too stunned to attempt either revenge or escape. Rohan’s soldiers were equally silent and motionless. Andrade sank down beside the slight form curled in the starshine, light gleaming off his fair hair.

He lived. Blood covered him like a cloak, but he lived. Andrade nodded at Chay, who lifted Rohan very gently and carried him to where Urival had made a small, warming fire. Rising to her feet, Andrade stood over Roelstra and gazed down into his dead eyes. Rohan’s knife was sunk into his throat and he wore a half-smile that chilled her. She bent stiffly and closed his eyes, but the feeling of insects crawling on her skin did not fade. For he smiled still; like her, he finally had what he wanted, though not quite in the manner planned.

She ordered the corpse wrapped in its violet cloak, then went to tend her nephew’s wounds. She had no salves, no ointments, no soothing draughts but a skinful of wine taken from one of Rohan’s men. This she poured down his throat as Urival washed the blood away. Chay sent riders back to the main battlefield for supplies. They returned at top speed, led by the frantic Tilal and Maarken.

It was a long while before she was satisfied that Rohan had taken no serious hurt. He had not opened his eyes, but the blank unconsciousness had become reassuring sleep, the signs unmistakable to Andrade’s trained eye. Two litters were prepared, one for the living prince and one for the dead one. Tilal remembered to reverse Roelstra’s banner on its pole to signal his death so that Rohan’s people would not think it was their own prince who had died.

Andrade glanced up as Chay touched her arm and spoke her name. His face was rough with stubble, smeared with dirt and sweat, his gray eyes dull and bloodshot as he looked up at the sky. She was surprised to find the stars nearly gone, blackness becoming deep blue washed with rose-gold on the horizon.

“Dragons,” he murmured.

They flew in small groups, hatchlings chased through the air by watchful she-dragons and sires who called down warnings against any threats to their precious brood. Dark and graceful shapes against the misted dawn, they flew in search of a feeding ground unspoiled by the blood of humans. Andrade wanted to follow them on the new light, soar with them on wings of her own, and began to understand Rohan’s love for the dragons. For them there were no complexities of choice, motive, treachery, deceit; no battling against their own natures. She looked down at his sleeping face, smoothed back lank fair hair.

“I wish you could see them,” she whispered. “They belong to you, Dragon Prince.”

“To the Desert,” Chay corrected quietly. “Just like he does. Not the other way around, Andrade.”

“I envy him—and them,” she murmured. “I’ve never owned anything but my rings and my pride. And nothing’s ever owned me.”

“To claim anything you have to be willing to be claimed in return. That has to come first, Andrade. You have to give yourself, first.” He paused, knelt beside Rohan, touched his shoulder “We’re lucky that Rohan’s known that all along.”

“I gave him Sioned, didn’t I?”

“Do you think she was yours to give?” Urival asked softly.

Andrade stiffened. Rising to her feet, she gestured for Rohan to be placed on the litter, and turned away from the others. Nothing but her rings and her pride—but they were all she had, and she would defend herself with them as long as she lived.

A dragon roared in the dawn, and she looked up again, wondering suddenly what it would be like to be both possessed and free.

Tobin opened her eyes.

Ostvel was clasping the shivering, crying infant to his chest. Pol’s eyes were fixed on Sioned, the misty newborn blue gone in the flashing Fire. Tiny hands reached out, fists clenched exactly as Sioned’s were clenched. She was on her knees, white cloak blowing back from her shoulders like dragon wings, arms outstretched and features strained into terrifying intensity. The stars had found focus in her eyes, seemed to flow into the very bones of her slender body as a cold silvery brilliance writhed around her, a white Fire from the stars striking rainbows from her whiteness. Tobin knew what Sioned had done, how she had woven every thread of light from the sky into the patterns of power that were her framework: Urival, Andrade, Tobin herself—and the child.

Ostvel glanced up. “He started screaming. I couldn’t quiet him.” Tobin nodded. There would be no protecting the child from his heritage. Sunrunner and Prince.

All at once Sioned trembled as if her bones would shatter. The infant’s cries softened to whimpers and then he was silent, his small face relaxing at last into serenity. It was a long time before Sioned’s features showed any hint of the same peace.

“The one with the knife—you could have killed him,” Tobin whispered hoarsely.

Sioned nodded, and in her eyes were lingering traces of stars and power. “You understand about Pandsala now, don’t you? She and I have the same regret—that Roelstra never knew she was betraying him all along.”

Sensing Ostvel’s bewilderment, Tobin turned to him and said slowly, “There was—combat between Rohan and Roelstra. One of the High Prince’s men thought to end it with a knife. Sioned—she used the stars, Ostvel. There wasn’t any other light.”

Sioned touched Pol’s cheek. “There’s Fire in the stars,” she murmured. “Sunrunner’s Fire.”

Ostvel held Pol closer. “He felt it. All of it, Sioned. You know what that makes him.”

She nodded again, bright head bending low. “It begins too young for him. I hope one day he can forgive me.”

D
ragon gold.

It bought the labors of a hundred master crafters, and by the beginning of spring the Great Hall of Stronghold was splendid with the results. The artisans would have worked for nothing, of course; the honor of boasting that they had had a hand in the making was worth more than any payment. But Rohan paid. Gold was simple coin and cost him very little, though only a few privileged people knew that. He stood surveying his stage, knowing it was exactly that, and nodded his satisfaction.

Three hundred lamps shaded by sparkling Fironese crystal were set high along the walls where torches had once been. Tiles made in Kierst formed a pattern of blue and green on the floor. A new suite of fruitwood banqueting tables and chairs from Syr were laden with a fabulous dinner service of Gribain porcelain and utensils of Fessenden silver. Flowers were arranged in low vases of blue Ossetian glass; on either side of each was a wine pitcher made from the giant seashells found off the coast of Isel. Dorval’s silk provided the green napery folded into fanciful shapes atop the plates; pinewood boxes from Cunaxa held spices; fingerbowls of black deerhorn from Meadowlord and white elkhoof from Princemarch waited for noble hands that would be dried on small soft towels of blue Giladan wool. Beside each princely goblet was a delicate little cup, the only obvious use of the dragon gold that had bought all the rest.

The banners of Desert
athr’im
had been removed to the foyer, replaced by a single tapestry behind the high table: the new dragon symbol. Stylized into simple, elegant lines, the bold arch of outspread wings balanced the proud lift of the beast’s head. Gold on blue, the dragon was crowned with a thin circlet and held a small ring surmounted by a real emerald set into the cloth. Zehava would have approved the grand gesture—and the warning.

Rohan finished his inspection of the Great Hall and complimented his household staff, then walked between the empty tables to the side aisle where Maeta stood in full battle harness over a new blue silk tunic, her black eyes snapping with pride.

Rohan gave her a smile. “Stand easy. You’re making me nervous!”

She snorted. “You made me responsible for his safety, and here I stay.” She nodded at Sioned, who sat at the high table with Pol in her lap.

“Did you hear that old fool Chale say that Pol has Sioned’s eyes?”

“And
your
manners,” Sioned called out as the baby gave a loud burp. “Let’s get this started, Rohan. He’s quiet for now, but there’s no telling how long it will last. I don’t want him shrieking at the guests who’ve come to admire him.”

“And you,” he added. She wore a green gown dark as a mountain forest. The emeralds were around her throat and a thin silver circlet crossed her brow to hold back her loosened hair. He mounted the dais to stand beside and just behind her, fingers resting on the ornate carving of a dragon in flight that decorated the back of her chair, knowing very well what picture they would present. He wore a dark blue tunic and trousers, a topaz winking deep gold from a chain around his throat, a band of plain silver around his head. Pol’s clothes were green to match his mother’s gown, and the blanket around him was blue stitched with tiny golden dragons. A more perfect portrait of regal domesticity could not be imagined—precisely what Rohan had intended.

He signaled to Ostvel and the main doors were opened. The chaos outside in the foyer abruptly hushed as the chief steward of Stronghold announced Her Royal Highness the Princess Tobin and Lord Chaynal of Radzyn Keep. Tobin still favored her injured leg a little, but not in public. She and Chay, dressed in his red and white accented by rubies and diamonds, crossed the shining glazed tiles, made their bows, and joined Rohan and Sioned at the high table.

Next came Rohan’s vassals: Eltanin of Tiglath; Abidias of Tuath Castle, who guarded the far northern border of the Desert; old Hadaan of Remagev; and Baisal of Faolain Lowland. Less senior vassals followed, bowed, made new vows to the heir, and went to stand behind their chairs at various points throughout the great Hall—a strategic placement of approving voices worked out in advance by Rohan, Ostvel, and Sioned. Walvis was the last of the Desert highborns to enter, tall and handsome with his blue eyes sparkling above a neatly trimmed black beard. He took his place at the head of the knights’ table. Rohan caught his eye and smiled.

The princes were next, with the exception of Miyon of Cunaxa. Sixteen winters old and forbidden to make a move on his own, he had sent word that he was too ill to make the long journey from Castle Pine. It had been decided to take no offense, as his presence was unnecessary in any case. There were princes enough to make this convocation valid.

Lleyn of Dorval came in first, and winked at Rohan. He placed a lingering kiss on Sioned’s wrist and tickled Pol’s chin until the infant crowed with laughter, then went to his place near the high table. Pimantal of Fessenden entered to express his gratitude that his city of Einar was safe—for no one doubted that had the late High Prince succeeded in Syr, Fessenden would have been next on his list. Saumer of Isel, Roelstra’s erstwhile ally, came in wary and defiant, but polite. He was followed by his enemy, Volog of Kierst, looking smug as he greeted Sioned as her kinsman. Prince Ajit, who showed no ill effects from the long journey to Stronghold from Firon at his advanced age, said pretty things to Sioned and agreed with Chale that the baby had her eyes.

Clutha of Meadowlord was tight-lipped and contrite, having already given Rohan many speeches of apology for not keeping a closer watch on Lyell of Waes—whom he had in tow and who looked sick with apprehension. A poke in the ribs was sufficient to launch the young man into a babbled speech to which Rohan listened without any expression at all. He nodded briefly in dismissal, wanting Lyell to sweat a little longer.

Chale of Ossetia walked in, radiating innocence regarding Lyell’s work. Then came the younger princes who, like Miyon, had lost their sires in the Plague but, unlike him, controlled their own governments. Cabar of Gilad and Velden of Grib were much the same age, and much on their dignity at this first meeting of princes since they had gained their lands. Yet they were still boys enough to respond with blushes when Sioned bestowed on each her most dazzling smile.

At last Davvi came in, accompanied by his wife. Wisla was gaudy and overjeweled in Syrene turquoise and garnets, with a huge diamond nestled in her ample cleavage. She beamed at all as if she were princess of Stronghold as well as of Syr.

Then it was the turn of Roelstra’s daughters. There were twelve left now; five had died of the Plague, and the circumstances of Ianthe’s death in the fire that had destroyed Feruche were still the subject of intense speculation. Pandsala led her sister and half-sisters up to the high table, and not one of them knew that the boy to whom they bowed was their sister Ianthe’s son.

As they rose, Sioned spoke clearly into the quiet. “A moment, my ladies, if you would be so kind.”

They all froze, clumped together, eyes wide with fear or startlement or both. All except for Chiana and Pandsala. The former glared defiantly at Rohan; the latter stared at the floor.

“You have behaved with honor, and that is the truest mark of nobility—caring first for the peace and well-being of your land. By renouncing all claim for yourselves and your descendants to the properties, titles, and wealth to which you were born, you have acted with great wisdom that all here will acknowledge.”

The sop to their lacerated pride, Rohan thought, composing himself to enjoy the rest of Sioned’s speech. She had insisted that she be the one to grant them this favor.

“Your lives are now your own,” she told them. “Should you wish to continue in quiet retirement at Castle Crag, you may do so. If there is a manor you would like to live in, that place and all its revenues will be yours for as long as you desire.”

“Your Highness!” gasped Naydra, the eldest of them.

“It was never our intention to leave you in nameless poverty,” Sioned assured her, and Rohan heard astonished whispers in the Hall. “And if there is a man you wish to wed, you will be dowered as befits your royal blood.”