Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince Read online

  “But that’s wonderful!” Milar’s blue eyes shone beneath the sunsilk of her hair. “The honor of it—and the dowry! We must be sure to ask for Feruche Castle. Rohan couldn’t do better than a daughter of the High Prince!”

  “Mila, think. You’ll be allied to Roelstra by marriage—”

  “I have thought! He would hardly attack his daughter’s husband!”

  “Listen to me! Rohan and his princess will have sons who will one day rule the Desert. What would be more natural than for the grandson of the High Prince to annex his holdings to his beloved grandsire’s?”

  “Never! The Treaty of Linse gives the Desert to Zehava’s family for as long as the sands spawn fire.”

  “Very pretty. A direct quote, I take it? But the Desert will continue to belong to Zehava’s family through Rohan. It will also belong to Roelstra’s, through the daughter he sends as Rohan’s bride. The High Prince is only forty-five this year, Mila. Let me conjure a vision for you.”

  The princess’ eyes went wide. “No! Andrade, you mustn’t! Not here!”

  “With words only, sister. Say Rohan marries this girl, whichever one it is. I can never keep them all straight. Say they have a child within two years. Roelstra will be forty-seven. Say he lives to be eighty. It’s not unlikely. His grandfather was ninety-three when he died—”

  “And his father barely twenty-eight.”

  “Pathetic age. I’ve always had my suspicions about that bottle of bad brandy said to have caused his death. But where was I? Ah, yes. Zehava is sixty this year and doesn’t come of a long-lived clan. Oh, don’t go all teary-eyed on me, Mila. He’ll probably prove me a liar just for spite and live to be a hundred and thirty-five. But say something happens to him before the grandsons are grown. Rohan becomes prince. Say further that something happens to Rohan—and believe me, my dear, when his sons are past the usual childhood illnesses, Rohan will be expendable. This leaves us the widowed princess, her sons of ten or twelve winters—and Roelstra hale and hearty, not even the age Zehava is right now.”

  “A ridiculous fantasy!” Milar exclaimed, but shadows were in her eyes.

  “If you like. Another conjuring with words. Rohan really becomes unnecessary once he’s fathered a son or two on this girl. With him out of the way and Zehava as caretaker for the boys until they come of age, Roelstra could let your husband die in his bed and still do anything he likes once the grandson inherits.”

  Lady Andrade applied herself to the grapes and waited for her twin to absorb the implications. Truly, Andrade had no idea why she bothered with this lovely lackwit sister of hers. Milar had inherited all the looks in the family, leaving Andrade to get by on the brains and energy. What was delicate gold in Milar was ruddy in Andrade; the temper for which both women were well-known was a flashfire rage in Milar, but carefully calculated in Andrade. Milar was perfectly happy being wife to a rather remarkable man (Andrade could admit Zehava’s virtues in private), mother to his children, and running his fortress. Andrade would never have been content with that life. She might have married a man through whom she could have controlled vast stretches of the continent, but as Lady of Goddess Keep she ruled more lands indirectly than even Roelstra. Her faradh’im, commonly called Sunrunners, were everywhere, and through them she influenced or downright controlled every prince and lord between the Dark and Sunrise Waters.

  She supposed she bothered with Milar because of Rohan. He took after neither of his parents in personality—nor did he resemble Andrade, so it was not herself in masculine guise she saw in him. He was unique, and she valued him for that. Milar loved the boy devotedly, and Zehava was just as fond of Rohan, though puzzled by him. Andrade alone understood him and had glimpsed what he might become.

  “I see your point, Andri,” Milar was saying slowly. “I wish you had explained it all clearly to begin with. We’ll simply have to reject the High Prince’s offer when it comes.”

  Lady Andrade sighed. “How?” she asked succinctly, wondering if her sister was entirely the fool she sometimes acted.

  The princess’ face, scarcely lined even after nearly thirty years in the harshness of the Desert, wrinkled now in alarm. “An open refusal would be a horrible insult! Roelstra would be down on us like a dragon on a yearling!” She fretted silently for a moment, then smiled. “Zehava can win any battle. If Roelstra dares attack, he’ll slink back to Castle Crag in total defeat!”

  “You idiot!” Andrade snarled, totally out of patience. “Have you heard nothing of what I’ve said? Didn’t you listen to points four, five, and six?”

  “I didn’t listen because you didn’t tell me!” Milar flared. “How can you expect me to make a decision when you withhold information?”

  “Sorry,” Andrade muttered. “Very well then, point four—Prince Chale of Ossetia is in Roelstra’s camp with a trade agreement they will make public at the Rialla this year. Five, Lord Daar of Gilad Seahold needs a wife and wants a princess. Point six—and for the same reasons—that piece of offal, Prince Vissarion of Grib, is also on Roelstra’s side. Do you seriously think Zehava can stand against all of them in addition to the allies Roelstra openly admits to? They’ve all seen what you and Zehava have built here. The Desert will never be a garden, but you’ve made parts of it into nearly that. This keep, Chaynal’s Radzyn, Tiglath and Tuath and Whitecliff Manor—all the work done by Zehava’s ancestors is finally bearing fruit. Don’t you think they’d all love an excuse to pluck the tree bare? An insult to a High Prince’s daughter would give them a fine reason to avenge her honor, especially if some of them are married or betrothed to her sisters.” She stopped, seeing by her twin’s stricken face that Milar at last understood the gravity of her position—or, more to the point, Rohan’s.

  “Andri,” she breathed, “if all this is as you say, then what can we do? I can’t let Rohan marry one of Roelstra’s daughters—I’d be lighting his pyre! And if we refuse—”

  “Oh, Rohan will be married, and soon,” Andrade said, having worked her sister around to exactly where she wanted her. “I have just the girl for him. Roelstra can’t propose a marriage to a man who’s already wed, now can he?”

  The princess sagged back in her chair. “Is she pretty?” she asked forlornly. “What’s her family like?”

  “Very pretty,” Andrade soothed, “and very well-born. But even if she was ugly as a she-dragon and born of a whore, she’d still be perfect for Rohan.” Andrade tossed the stripped grapestem into a bowl and smiled. “My dear Mila, the girl has a brain.”

  The midday heat was suffocating. Lord Chaynal watched his father-by-marriage battle it out with the dragon, wiped sweat from his forehead, and wondered how long this was going to take. Blood oozed from nicks in the dragon’s golden hide, and a long slash had been cut into one wing; by its twitchings, a nerve had been hit as well. The dragon snarled his fury as Zehava toyed with him. But it was taking a long time to subdue the beast, and Chay was getting worried.

  The other riders were restless, too. They were still in semicircular formation, having moved back only a little when the dragon leaped off his perch to attack Zehava from the sand at the canyon mouth. The decision of whether or not to charge was Chaynal’s, and he was under orders not to do so unless there was no other choice. All those men and women present had had practice with lesser dragons, for Zehava was a generous prince and liked everyone to come away with a tooth or talon as a souvenir of between-years hunts. But the prince himself was the only one allowed to kill mating sires like this one, and nobody interfered without excellent reason.

  Chay began to fret, wishing for the cool sea winds of Radzyn Keep. The air swirled around him with every angry beat of dragon wings, but the heat sucked sweat out of him and dried it instantly on his skin, giving the air no chance to cool the perspiration. He squinted into the canyon where merciless sunlight reflected off the rocks, then looked away, closing his eyes for a few heartbeats to ease the ache of glare. Shifting in his saddle, he sensed his unease being communicated to his horse
. Silver-tufted ears flattened back and quivers chased each other through silken muscles beneath a glossy black hide.

  “Patience, Akkal,” Chay murmured. “He knows what he’s doing.” Chay hoped so, anyway. Much time had passed since the dragon had chosen his ground and Zehava had drawn first blood. The prince’s movements were slower and the curvettes of his great war-stallion were growing sluggish. It appeared to Chay that the two old warriors, dragon and prince, were evenly matched now.

  The dragon roared and snapped at Zehava, whose horse barely got him out of the way in time. Rocks clattered in the caves within the canyon, and the whimpers of waiting females rose to a whine. Each of them was safe and nervous and anxious to be alone with her chosen mate, calling out to him in plaintive demand for his presence.

  Akkal trembled again and Chay calmed the horse. To distract himself from growing concern as Zehava narrowly avoided talons and teeth, Chay began to calculate how many females would die unmated in the caves and how many eggs would lie unfertilized once this dragon was dead. Fifteen females, perhaps, with twenty or so eggs each, of which five or six at most might survive to fly. Multiply this number by the nine other sires Zehava had killed in mating years, plus their females, and the total was staggering. Yet there were always more dragons. The Desert gave forth hundreds of hatchlings every three summers that roamed over the princedoms ravaging crops and herds. Killing the mating sires was the most efficient way of cutting down the population, for the unmated females and their unfertilized eggs were lost, too. But even this was a losing proposition in the end. There were always more dragons.

  Chaynal sighed and stroked Akkal’s neck. Zehava’s power rested in part on his ability to cut down the dragon population. Would Rohan be able to do as much when his turn came? It was not a happy thought. Fond as he was of his wife’s brother, and much as he sincerely respected Rohan’s gifts, he knew the young prince hadn’t the stomach for killing dragons. Strength in battle as demonstrated by these hunts was an integral part of the Desert’s power. What other basis for rule was there than military victory?

  Chay’s own family had guarded the Desert’s one safe port for generations, their prestige firmly based on providing and protecting trade. He was honest enough—and had enough of a sense of humor—to acknowledge that his forebears’ original power had come from baldfaced piracy; the money to build Radzyn Keep had not come from port fees legitimately gathered. In these civilized days, fast ships bearing the red-and-white Radzyn banner no longer roamed the Small Islands or hid in coves waiting for rich merchantmen. Nowadays his ships patrolled the waters to keep them safe. But war and thievery endured in his family line, he reminded himself with a whimsical smile. He had fought with great enjoyment as Zehava’s battle commander, and every three years at the Rialla he entertained himself with legal robbery when he sold his horses. Fighting battles and outsmarting one’s trading partners: these were excellent bases for power. Rohan had shown himself a capable warrior that memorable day against the Merida—though he’d nearly given his parents apoplexy when they had discovered his unauthorized presence—and he was clever enough when he chose to be. But Rohan was not a warrior by choice, nor an instinctive bargainer.

  Chay’s attention was pulled back to the battle before him as the dragon’s wings spread and cast a shadow across the sun. He circled upward on thermals and bellowed his fury, then hurtled down with claws extended toward Zehava. The prince calculated the leap to a hair’s breadth, waiting until the last instant before hauling his outraged stallion around out of range. As he did so, his sword slashed a bloody rent in the dragon’s hide. The beast screamed in agony and a muted cheer went up from the other riders as the dragon’s hind legs sank into soft sand, wings flapping as he struggled for purchase. Zehava swung his horse around and stabbed the dragon’s flank just behind the left wing. The females in their caves howled in response to their mate’s shriek.

  Chay began to feel better. Zehava was still every bit the prince he had always been, skills and cunning intact. The dragon was bleeding now, his movements and breathing labored. But the fire in his eyes was unquenched, and as he regained his footing he swerved around with death in his hot gaze.

  Princess Tobin loved her children dearly, but did not feel compelled to spend her time looking after them. At her husband’s keep there were servants enough to make sure the twin boys were fed, taught, and kept out of serious mischief while their parents ran the vast estates. Here at Stronghold on their annual visit there were yet more servants happy to attend the young lords. So when she heard laughter from the main courtyard outside her windows, she assumed the boys were being entertained by one or another of the grooms. She glanced outside to find Jahni astride a dappled pony and Maarken riding a bay, each child brandishing a wooden sword at a young man who flourished a crimson cloak like dragon wings. But the twins’ playmate was definitely not one of the grooms.

  “Rohan!” she called down to the courtyard. “Whatever are you doing?”

  “Dragon, Mama!” Jahni shouted, waving his sword. “Watch me!” As the twins attempted to ride down the heir to the Desert Princedom, Tobin shook her head in fond exasperation. She dismissed her secretary and hurried to the staircase, muttering to herself. “Honestly! Wrapped around their fingers! A prince in his position, playing dragon for a couple of five-year-olds!” But there was affection in her voice and as she emerged from the foyer into the courtyard she laughed as Rohan, dealt a glancing blow on his “wing” by Maarken’s sword, fluttered the cloak and sank to the ground like a dying dragon.

  Tobin regarded her loudly triumphant offspring with a sigh, then turned to her brother. “Do get up from there and stop playing the fool,” she scolded. He peeked up at her, bright-eyed, from under the cloak. “And as for you,” she said to her sons, “take those ponies back to their stalls and don’t come back until you’ve seen to their comfort. Your grandsire didn’t give them to you to have you neglect them.”

  “I killed the dragon, Mama, did you see?” Maarken exulted.

  “Yes, darling, I saw, and a very good warrior you are, too. Now, you’ll excuse the dragon while he talks with me for a while, won’t you?”

  The dragon stood up and brushed courtyard dirt from his clothes. “I’ve heard it said that dragons have a taste for gobbling up princesses—the prettier the better.”

  “Not this princess,” Tobin said firmly, then laughed as Rohan began to stalk her, cloak flapping. “You wouldn’t dare!”

  The twins squealed with glee as he rushed forward and folded her in his cloak. Ignoring her cries of protest, he dumped her unceremoniously into the horse trough. Tobin spluttered, spat water, and glared at her brother.

  “Hot as a hatching cave today,” he observed casually, and climbed in beside her.

  She swept his feet out from under him with a well-placed kick. He collapsed in the knee-deep water, yelling his outrage. “Ever seen a drowned dragon?” she asked sweetly, and hastily backed off as he made a grab for her.

  “You’ve just about drowned a prince!” he grinned, slicking back wet hair.

  Tobin gathered up her sopping skirts and climbed out of the trough. “If you two don’t want to share a similar fate . . .” she warned her sons playfully.

  It was invitation enough. They bounced off their ponies and jumped into the trough for a water fight. She gleefully joined in, helping the boys dunk Rohan thoroughly. At last—breathless, soaked, and victorious—the boys went off to tend their ponies. Rohan picked himself up and climbed out of the trough and grinned at Tobin.

  “There! You’ve been looking entirely too regal and serious the last few days. Now you look human again.”

  She batted at his wet blond head. “Imbecile! Come on, let’s go dry off in the garden where no one will see us. Mother will have us skinned if we drip all over her new Cunaxan rugs.”

  Rohan slung a companionable arm around her shoulders as they walked through the courtyard to the garden gates. The flowers were in their best late-spring bloom and
once again Tobin marveled at the miracle that had brought roses to the Desert. The transformation had begun when she was a child, and by now she could barely remember a time when Stronghold had not been as gracious and comfortable as it was now. Radzyn’s luxuries she took for granted, but her soul still belonged to the Stronghold of her ancestors, and she gloried in the beauty her mother had brought to this place.

  She chose a stone bench in full sunlight and spread her skirts out to dry. Rohan obliged her by unplaiting her long black braids and helping her finger-comb her hair.

  “Remember when Father used to play dragon for us?” he asked.

  “And you always let me have the best chance at him,” she replied fondly. “He didn’t have quite your flair with a cloak, though. You’re a born actor.”

  “I hope so,” he answered a bit grimly.

  “Jahni and Maarken adore you,” Tobin went on, pretending not to have noticed his tone of voice. “You’ll make a wonderful father to your own boys.”

  “Not you, too,” he muttered. “Mother’s been talking of nothing else all spring. At the Rialla she’ll find me some fecund, bovine fool of a noblewoman to make babies with.”

  “Nobody will force you to marry a girl you can’t love. You’ll have your pick of women.”

  “I’m twenty-one and I haven’t found a single girl I’d spend two days with, let alone my life. You and Chay were lucky to find each other so young.”

  “Goddess blessing,” Tobin said. “And you really haven’t gone out looking yet, you know.”

  “Mother and Father intend to do it for me,” he sighed. “And that’s the problem. Mother’s looking for someone so highborn she probably won’t know how to get dressed without the help of three maids. And Father wants somebody pretty and fertile—says he wants handsome grandsons.” Rohan laughed ruefully. “And as for what I want—”