The Dragon Token Read online

  “There’s a sand cloud coming up from the south,” Isriam said. “We’d better go have a look.”

  “Let’s,” Daniv agreed, reining his tired horse around. “Goddess, what I wouldn’t give for a tubful of water right now—though I wouldn’t know whether to bathe in it or drink it.”

  “You fly high,” Isriam observed as they made their way down the columns of soldiers to the rear guard. “I’d settle for half a flask.”

  “As long as you’re dreaming, why not my father’s Syrene goldwine?”

  It was Daniv’s wine now. Both of them thought it, neither said it. They looked at each other, sharing the memory of an evening last winter. Rohan, catching them getting mildly tipsy on a stolen bottle, had added to their education by matching them cup for cup of Syrene gold until both boys were cross-eyed. They remembered most of the evening, anyway—and certainly recalled with agonizing clarity the morning after, and their lord’s amusement as he lectured them on knowing one’s limits when it came to wine as all else.

  “When this is over,” Daniv said abruptly, “come to High Kirat with me and we’ll drink ourselves stuporous.”

  “When this is over, we’ll deserve it.”

  A measure or so behind the last of Lord Maarken’s army, the two young men reined in and squinted at the little roil of sand on the horizon. “Storm, or soldiers?” Daniv asked.

  “Whichever, we should warn them.” Isriam chewed his lip. “But I’m betting on Vellant’im.”

  “I hope you’re wrong. Did you look at our people, Isriam? There’s not enough fight left in them to bring down a lame plow-elk.”

  They rode directly for the blue Desert banner—tattered now, but with the golden dragon still gleaming atop the staff in the dawnlight—that signaled where Lord Maarken and Prince Pol were.

  “The prevailing winds argue against a storm,” the former mused after the squires had spoken. “But the only thing certain in the Desert is that the Storm God always changes his mind. What do you think, Pol?”

  “I’ve lived too long in Princemarch. Kazander?”

  The korrus of the Isulk’im lifted his head, licked his lips as if tasting the air, and nodded. “Enemy troops, my prince. One can smell their filthy, infested hides, the oil slathered on their hair that my wives would scorn to grease a rusted hinge with—”

  “Very well,” Pol said, interrupting Kazander’s eloquence. He regarded the two squires. “Find each of the captains and tell them to make ready. There’s a flat stretch just west of—”

  Maarken cleared his throat. “Pol. . . .”

  He met the Battle Commander’s gray eyes. “Ah,” he said softly. “Your pardon, my lord.”

  The older man inclined his head. “Daniv, Isriam, please inform the captains that we’ll be turning due west for the Court of the Storm God.”

  The pair nodded and rode off. Kazander effaced himself, effectively leaving the cousins alone.

  Maarken said, “I’m sorry, but we’re just not capable of a fight.”

  “You’re right, of course. And you needn’t be so careful, Maarken. When I’m being an idiot, just tell me.” He smiled a little. “Your father always gives mine a good swift kick when he needs it. Your job is to do the same for me.”

  “My father outweighs yours by two silkweights and can get away with kicking him,” Maarken answered wryly. “You and I, on the other hand, are the same size—and you’re eleven winters the younger.”

  “Strange you should say so,” Pol murmured. “I feel a hundred years old.”

  • • •

  Meiglan held firmly to her daughters’ hands. Rislyn’s she held for comfort; Jihan’s she gripped more firmly, to prevent the child from racing forward into the thin winter dawn. Meiglan gulped in fresh air, the first she had tasted since the previous dusk, but despite its welcome dryness she was curiously reluctant to leave the tunnel. It had been safe in there, despite the damp and the blackness between torches.

  Jihan tried to free her fingers. Meiglan held on more tightly. “No. Stay with me, both of you.”

  “You’re hurting my ring, Mama,” Jihan complained, and Meiglan let go. The girl did not dart off through the crowd, but instead went to Rislyn’s side and took her other hand. “It’s all right, Lynnie, Papa will come get us soon. You can ride on his horse if you ask.”

  Rislyn nodded, her eyes huge. She had been the defiant one last evening, refusing to leave Stronghold now that her grandsir had given the twins rings and made them his athr’im: Jihan of Rosewall and Rislyn of the Willow Tree. But now Rislyn was exhausted and frightened. Meiglan knew just how she felt.

  Jihan kept talking as they moved forward into the frail sunlight. “I hope we go to Skybowl—Lady Betheyn says the lake is much bigger than at Dragon’s Rest, and on top of a mountain! Do you think that’s true, Mama? And there aren’t any trees at all, not even fruit trees or Granda’s willow like in the garden at Stronghold.” She gave her sister a quick smile. “Your willow tree! I want to see Feruche, too, and Tiglath—Mama, will you ask Lady Ruala to let us visit her at Elktrap? I want—”

  “Oh, be still!” Meiglan snapped.

  Kierun wove his way through the people trudging from the passage’s mouth, his sack of cheese given over to someone better able to carry it. “My lady, I’ve found a place where you and the princesses can rest.”

  “Thank you, Kierun.” She followed, grateful for his polite but adamant urgings of “Make way for Princess Meiglan!” that freed her and the girls from the knotted crowd.

  He had left a boy of about six to watch the area made ready for them—flat rocks to sit on, a waterskin and a small loaf of bread and a round of cheese waiting for their breakfast. On seeing them, the child jumped up and said, “I didn’t touch any!”

  Meiglan realized that he was as hungry as they, and smiled reassurance. “Thank you for keeping this place for us. Why don’t you stay and share our meal? Kierun, you too. Sit down, girls.”

  They had barely finished when Stronghold’s head maidservant approached to ask if anyone had seen Lady Feylin. Tibalia cradled Sioned’s jewel coffer to her breast, looking as if she had locked her arms around it so tightly for so long that her bones and flesh had melded to the silver.

  “No, I don’t know where she is,” Meiglan replied. “Why don’t you sit down and rest for a little while, Tibalia? Have something to eat.”

  She shook her head, locks of gray hair falling into her eyes. “I must find her, my lady. Lord Walvis has ridden in from the Court of the Storm God.”

  “Is that where we’re going?” Jihan asked eagerly.

  Meiglan barely heard her. He must have news of Pol. She almost sprang to her feet, then thought better of it. She was a princess; she could not very well go running to find Walvis herself. “Kierun, bring him here to me, please.”

  To keep herself occupied while she waited, she unbound Rislyn’s hair and finger-combed it before plaiting it once more. Getting Jihan to sit still for the same was more difficult. She had just finished making sections for braiding when Walvis approached. Her fingers faltered slightly, then again took up the soothing rhythm of twisting her daughter’s golden hair.

  The older man’s eyes were red-rimmed in his grief-haggard face. He bowed low, startling her. “I am glad to see you safe, your grace.”

  Not my lady, as she had always been addressed by Pol’s friends and family. Your grace. How strange.

  “Thank you. And—my lord? He’s well?” she asked, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

  “Also safe, and uninjured as far as I know. I’ve come to take you to the Court of the Storm God.”

  “Are we going to Skybowl?” Jihan demanded. “Are we?”

  “No—to Feruche. We’ll meet your father there.” He glanced around him, eyes narrowing. “With all the wounded and the children, it’ll be slow going. I’ve brought horses. And more troops to guard our backs. Are you ready, your grace?”

  She nodded, and he bowed again. She wondered why.


  Hesitating a moment, he said, “Meath asks if you will permit the High Pr—Princess Sioned to ride with you and your daughters today.”

  When had Sioned ever needed anyone’s permission to do anyth—then she belatedly heard the slip and its correction, and her jaw fell open. No wonder he bowed. No wonder he called her “your grace.”

  Rohan was dead. Pol was High Prince. And that meant she was—

  Walvis saw it in her face. He went white beneath his tan. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “I thought you knew—”

  She stared up at him, her fingers clutching Jihan’s hair. It was only when the little girl tugged away and said, “That hurts, Mama!” that she realized there was anyone else in the world.

  “Forgive me,” he said again, awkwardly. “I’ll—I’ll go get the horses.”

  “Yes,” Meiglan replied mindlessly, and barely saw him bow again and move off. A long time later she dragged herself up onto the horse Kierun held for her. Let someone else give the orders, make the decisions. She could not.

  It wasn’t until they were nearly at the ravine leading to the Court of the Storm God that she understood why Walvis had treated her with so much ceremony. It was a subtle reminder, given with great gentleness, of her new position. Her new responsibilities. She was High Princess now. But she also knew what it must have cost him—how cruel a reminder it would be of the man they had lost, each time they addressed someone else as “High Prince.”

  Did Pol know yet that his father was dead?

  Sioned met them—straight-backed and composed, as always, but her eyes were lifeless. Meath, riding at her side, bowed wordlessly to Meiglan. She wondered if she should speak to Sioned. She kept silent. What in the Goddess’ Name could she say?

  Hollis rode up to them, looking too stunned even for grief. “Sioned,” she murmured, and Meiglan learned her own wisdom in staying silent. Green eyes stared straight ahead, not even acknowledging Hollis’ presence—or indeed that anyone else existed at all.

  The Sunrunner cleared her throat and turned to Meath. “There is something you must know. Myrdal died last night.”

  “But she was uninjured—” Meiglan began.

  “In her body, perhaps,” Meath said quietly. He closed his eyes for a moment, looking unbearably weary. Sioned did not seem to have heard anything. “Where will she be burned, Hollis? We can’t take her all the way to Feruche.”

  “Skybowl. Chay will meet Maarken and Pol there—Tobin hasn’t the strength to ride much farther.”

  Meiglan leaned forward. “I’ll go with them. I should be with my lord.”

  Hollis glanced at Meath, who said, “I think that would be unwise, your grace. You and the princesses will be safer under Lord Walvis’ protection.”

  “But I must go to Pol! He’ll need me!”

  Hollis touched her wrist. “It’ll be only a few days—”

  “I’m going to Skybowl,” she stated. She was High Princess. Nobody could stop her.

  “No,” Sioned murmured, and though her voice was soft they all flinched at the sound of it. “You will not go to Skybowl. You will come with me to Feruche. Feruche,” she repeated, with a strange, frightening smile on her lips.

  Meath looked at Sioned as if she might crumble to dust right before him.

  Meiglan bent her head. “Yes, my lady.” There could be no doubt about who was still High Princess here.

  • • •

  Pride and anger had sustained Pol through half the night and uncounted measures of open Desert. But he no longer knew what was keeping him in his saddle. Stubbornness, perhaps. Maybe pain. Though physically unharmed—a few scratches, plenty of bruises, but no wounds to signify—he was utterly exhausted. But the pain was a thing of the heart and bowels. If, as Maarken had told him, this was characteristic of true princes, then he wasn’t sure he wanted to be a prince anymore. It hurt too much.

  During the night, he’d kept glancing back over his shoulder to the eerie glow that was Stronghold. He knew he shouldn’t, but was unable to stop himself. It was Sunrunner’s Fire, unmistakably so. But why? At dawn he could not look with his other sight, for an uncertain haze drifted over the sun.

  Part of the ache was seeing Maarken, riding beside him. The straight spine was curved now, not as a branch bends under a weight too heavy to bear, but in the manner of a bow drawn taut and ready to release deadly tension in arrow flight. But there was no enemy before him now, only hundreds of warriors to lead to safety, and without target for the strain Maarken would soon snap. Pol rode closer to him, not knowing what comfort he might offer or receive, but needing the closeness.

  Both men suddenly sat straight, instinctively drawing rein. The army around them was too numbed with defeat to notice—until the dragon’s shriek snapped every head up and all eyes turned to the milk-pale sky.

  Recognizing the dragon’s voice, Pol kicked his weary horse to a trot. A rush of wings nearly enveloped him. The horse was too familiar with dragons to shy away, but when Azhdeen howled once more the animal quivered and dug his hooves deep into the sand.

  The dragonsire landed, folded his wings, and paced forward. He squinted as he inspected Pol, as if to make certain his human was unhurt. Pol slid from the saddle and approached, hands held out. Andrade’s moonstone and the dark amethyst of Princemarch winked dully as he touched Azhdeen. The dragon’s head craned around, supple neck half-encircling Pol.

  “I heard you last night, my friend,” he murmured. “Why are you all the way up here in the north? Aren’t your ladies lonely for you? Or did you feel something, and get worried about me?”

  The dragon growled, the sound rippling from his chest all the way up his throat to his jaws. Pol was held in a firm embrace now: not captive, but supported with amazing gentleness. Above the sand nearby, like a shimmervision on a brutal summer day, an image formed. Stronghold by night as seen from the air, dripping with flames—not brought by flint on stone, but Sunrunner’s Fire. The castle, the stables, the outbuildings, even the slopes of the rocky hollow where Pol’s ancestors had found water and refuge—all of it was ablaze.

  It was Sunrunner’s Fire—but not the sort that burned without burning. It might take days, but Stronghold would char down to ashes. Pol cried out. The dragon arched more closely around him, humming low in his throat with sympathy. What he had seen continued to play out before Pol’s anguished eyes.

  Two bodies burned in the courtyard. Morwenna and Relnaya, dead of sorcery—dead saving the lives of other Sunrunners. He blinked away tears and vowed that when there was time to mourn, to stand in silence with a candle flame in hand as a reminder that fire was everyone’s destiny, he himself would speak the words to honor their lives.

  Azhdeen showed him the gardens. His grandmother’s fountain and the grotto cascade splashed Fire, not Water. He shuddered, knowing which faradhi had gestured all this into being, powerful enough to let it continue on its own. He knew the touch of those elegant and ruthless fingers.

  The images continued. Beside the stream he saw a man lying on the dry grass: slimly made, pale-haired, eyes closed as if in sleep. From his unmoving chest sprang flames that had not yet touched him, and would not—nor the masses of silken hair that spilled red-gold across his body. Only when the other Fire reached him would he be consumed.

  A low rumble vibrated through Azhdeen’s body as he was caught in Pol’s grief; he unfolded one wing and cloaked it protectively around his human. Pol huddled against the dragon’s shoulder, too stricken even to weep.

  Chapter Two

  The playful predawn breeze that had awakened Tallain by sifting sand onto his face now seemed determined to snatch the map from across his knees. He spared an inner sigh for his desk back at Tiglath—and the clay impressions of his children’s handprints that he used as parchmentweights—and shifted around on his rock, back to the wind. Riyan stood at his shoulder, intent on the drawing of the Northern Desert.

  “They’re taking their ease on the plain below Tuath,” Tallain mused. “If we cut around an
d approach from Cunaxa, we can cut off any reinforcements.”

  “Yes, but if we should happen upon those reinforcements, we’ll be trapped between. There’s nothing left of Tuath for them to live off or in, so they’ll be looking for those other troops with their supplies.” Riyan studied the map. “Instead of drawing them north to fight us, why not coax them south?”

  “To Tiglath?” Tallain growled.

  “Of course not! I should’ve said southwest. To Stony Thorns.”

  After a moment’s thought, Tallain smiled. “Riyan, I think we’re going to have a quarrel. Yes, and the louder the better. Then you’re going to march off in a huff, and I’m going to come after you—because it’s obvious that I don’t have enough troops to face the combined Merida and Cunaxan hosts. You’ll head for Stony Thorns, I’ll follow—”

  “—and we’ll stage a lovely brawl!” Riyan clapped him on the shoulder. “But what if they don’t come to see what’s going on?”

  Tallain looked up, his face all innocence. “It’s only twenty measures. And who could resist pouncing on an army that’s fighting itself?”

  “With lots of noise and fuss,” Riyan added, starting to grin.

  “While the rest of our people drive them right into the rocks.”

  “That’s rather sneaky.”

  “I knew you’d like it. Now, as for the argument that starts it all—you’ll disagree with me about tactics, and—”

  He stopped abruptly, with the distinct impression that Riyan was no longer listening. As indeed he was not; the dark eyes had glazed over, losing all their bronze and golden glintings. Even with the clearing morning sun full on his dark Fironese skin, he had gone ash-pale. Tallain gestured away an approaching soldier who might have disturbed the Sunrunning.