Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince Read online

  “Would a man of his wealth, family, and position accept a bastard?” she asked bluntly.

  “Any daughter of mine would be an honor, but I suppose you’re right. There’s great pride in that face—and his mother is even worse. Go on.”

  “Ianthe is also intelligent. She’ll understand where her advantage lies. I assume I’m correct in that this advantage will not be with her new husband?” She smiled, more confident as ideas came to her. “And she is ambitious.”

  “How would that serve me, if she’s wed to this powerful young prince?”

  “How long would he be able to keep that power on his own?” she countered. “I’ve never heard anything of him except that he’s quiet and studious. You’d never waste a daughter on a man who lets power dribble through his fingers. Ianthe will keep it for him—and for you. The Merida still sit in Cunaxa, north of the Desert border. Would Ianthe allow them to put so much as a boot heel on anything she owned?”

  “She does have rather acquisitive instincts. But I fail to see how I may be assured of keeping her in line.”

  “She is ambitious and intelligent—but she is also not stupid in any way that I’ve ever seen. Of course you can’t trust her. But at least you know her qualities. Can you say the same of Naydra, who can barely string two sentences together, or Pandsala, who never says what she thinks—if she thinks anything at all? As for Lenala—we all know very well that she cannot think. But you know Ianthe. And Ianthe knows it.” And apart from all that, she thought silently, how wonderful it would be to get rid of the girl, who was the main reason Palila lived so cautiously.

  As if Roelstra had heard the thought, he smiled and said, “The advantage to you being her removal from Castle Crag.”

  Palila smiled back, inwardly cursing his perceptiveness. “Her elevation will increase your power and honors.”

  “Then it may be Ianthe,” he mused.

  Crigo made a soft sound and the face of the young prince vanished from the flame, Roelstra turned, scowling. “Control yourself, Sunrunner. You’re not finished for the night.”

  “I—I’m sorry, your grace—” he mumbled, gripping the candle now with both hands.

  “Ianthe is indeed a clever girl,” Roelstra said to Palila. “But I worry that perhaps she’s too clever.”

  “She will rule her husband, and you will rule her.” Palila shrugged. “You have spies enough at Stronghold, my lord, to keep her effectively under your eye at all times. All she really needs to do is have a couple of sons—grandchildren for you to protect.”

  Roelstra laughed. “We must make sure this thought does not occur to her—or that she knows anything of her future honors until the Rialla at Waes. I will need you there, my dear.”

  “I am yours to command,” she said formally, but with a smile that invited commands pertaining to the bedroom. Her expression hid relief at having talked her way out of potential danger.

  Roelstra laughed again and placed his hands on Crigo’s shoulder. “You may douse the Fire now and make ready to ride the moonlight to Stronghold.”

  But Crigo cried out in sudden agony and the candleflame surged upward, becoming a pillar of writhing Fire that grew talons and teeth and dragon wings. Palila screamed as faces formed and vanished in the brilliance: Roelstra, Ianthe, Pandsala, herself, Prince Rohan, Zehava, and a girl’s face surrounded by a cloud of hair that seemed made of fire. The dragon reared up, snarling, and the flames caught on Crigo’s sleeves. He toppled to the floor, hands clawing the air, visions spitting into the wildfire light.

  Roelstra tore the curtains from the window and smothered the faradhi in it, cursing. Dragon and Fire vanished. The High Prince lifted Crigo’s limp form and went to kick open the door. Flinging the unconscious Sunrunner into the antechamber, he roared to the servants, “Get him out of here!” He slammed the door shut and wiped sweat from his forehead.

  Palila closed her eyes and trembled. She feared little in life beyond the loss of her beauty, but she was utterly paralyzed by fire. Her mind ignited with pictures of the whole room in flames that licked up the tapestries and wooden paneling, eating at her hair and consuming her flesh and bones while she still lived. She whimpered and wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the baby in her womb jerk and quiver in response to her terror.

  “You were in no danger,” Roelstra said above her. “Palila, stop this. You might harm the child.”

  She looked up at him, so tall and powerful. Her fingers dug into his tunic and she moaned as he gathered her in his arms to carry her to the bed.

  “Palila, calm yourself,” he said.

  She raked her nails across his chest, ripping the silk tunic, and he looked astonished for an instant before he burst out laughing. The flames still burned in her imagination—inside her body now, consuming her from within. Roelstra twisted a handful of her long hair into a rope and wrapped it around her neck as he undressed her.

  “So your fear of fire makes you burn, does it? Remind me to change my method of execution,” he crooned. “I can hardly wait to find out what watching someone being burned alive will do to you. Would you like to see that, my pet? Just imagine the flames as they devour some helpless man or woman. How hot the fire can be, my darling,” he whispered as he bent her head back and tightened the rope around her throat. His lips brushed her mouth, fiery moist, and she used up the last air in her lungs on a scream that made him laugh with delight. “Think about the flames, Palila—”

  Chapter Four

  Prince Zehava regained consciousness on the morning of the third day. He was too experienced a warrior not to know within moments of waking that his wounds were mortal. Andrade, seated at his bedside while Milar closed her eyes for some needed rest, saw in the black eyes that he knew was dying.

  “So,” he breathed, one eyebrow cocked almost rakishly. “The dragon-slayer has been dragon-slain. Better this way, Andrade, than of a sickness or by an enemy’s sword.”

  “As you say, Zehava. If there’s pain, tell me. I can ease it.”

  “No, no pain. Not for me, at least.” He closed his eyes again and nodded. “It’s a good potion that numbs the wounds while leaving the mind clear. My thanks, Andrade. But I doubt you have anything to ease Mila’s pain.”

  “Not even time heals a woman who loses a man like you, Zehava.”

  He looked up, surprised. A smile danced across his face for an instant. But what he said was, “I want to see my son.”

  “I’ll send for him.”

  “Alone. Do you hear me, Andrade? Alone.”

  Rohan was there quickly, dark circles beneath his eyes and strain tightening his features. Andrade lingered long enough to see him sit and take his father’s hand, then left them alone.

  Rohan pressed the cold fingers between his own. “I’m here, Father.”

  Zehava’s hand curled around his. “There are things I must tell you. Will you listen to me at last?”

  “I’ve always listened.”

  “And then gone your own way. Well, I won’t be here to listen to much longer, so pay attention.” Zehava licked his lips and made a face. “It won’t be the dragon claws through my guts that will kill me. I’ll die of thirst and starvation. Get me something to drink.”

  Rohan took a square of white silk soaked in water and pressed it to his father’s lips. It was all that was allowed; anything Zehava swallowed would only make the pain worse. Andrade had ordered that nothing be given the prince but her own concoctions, which would kill the pain before they caused it.

  Zehava sucked at the moisture, grimaced again, and closed his eyes. “Never trust anyone, Rohan. Especially not the Merida, and most especially not the High Prince. The first will slink into the Desert to attack when you least expect it—and the second would like to.”

  “Actually,” Rohan replied, “the Merida will probably try to test me next spring. I thought it might be interesting to fight them for a while, then buy them off. Oh, I know it’s risky,” he admitted, seeing his father’s eyes widen in outrage. �
�They’ll purchase weapons and support that won’t make it any easier to crush them when they grow arrogant enough to attack in full force. But if they can’t defeat us after I hand them the money to do it with—and they won’t, I promise—their sources will dry up. Still, I’m afraid that I’ll have to spend a great deal of money to lure them into doing what I want them to.”

  “Buy them off! Of all the—!” But then he gave a short cough of laughter. “As if I have anything to say about it now! My pride would never have permitted it. But I have to trust you, don’t I, Rohan? Laugh for me when they’re beaten back.”

  “I will.”

  Zehava nodded and changed the subject. “You’ll need a wife soon.”

  Rohan smiled slightly. “I promise she’ll be pretty, and you’ll have handsome grandchildren.”

  Zehava grinned his appreciation, teeth flashing whitely in his black beard that seemed to have acquired gray streaks very suddenly. “Pretty or not, treat your wife as you would a dragon. Prepare yourself carefully to meet her, and approach with respect and admiration. Always preserve her pride by letting her show her strength—and then educate her as to exactly who her master is.”

  Rohan thought of the face in the flames and said nothing.

  “The promises of a prince die with him,” Zehava went on, shifting slightly in the bed. “You’ll have to see to the holdings soon. Send Chay to the lesser ones as your deputy, but go yourself to the greater. They must feel your hand as they have felt mine. Don’t try to buy them off.”

  “No. I won’t.”

  “I wish I could have seen your wife,” he fretted. “Make sure she’s not too beautiful. A beautiful woman is her own temptation. She’ll think more of herself than of you. The only exception I ever met was your mother.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Your real wealth is in your children, Rohan.” The fierce black gaze slid away to a corner of the room. “Mine has been.”

  Rohan’s eyes stung at the rare words of tenderness. “Is it?” he asked, his throat tight. “I’m not the son you wanted. You would have done better with someone like Chay.”

  “I would have known him better,” Zehava acknowledged. “I don’t know you very well, do I? And I fear for you because of it. I’m leaving you a strong princedom built by four generations. Hold onto it, Rohan.”

  “My ways aren’t yours, Father. But I promise I’ll keep what’s ours.”

  “Yours now,” Zehava said gruffly. “I give all to you alone. Remember that. Not a grain of sand or a breath of wind over the dunes is anyone’s but yours. You’ll have your battles to keep them. I wish I could see those, too.” He paused, looked up, and gave his son a tiny smile. “I never told you how proud I was, did I? My scholarly fool of a son in common trooper’s harness, covered in Merida blood. . . .”

  “You didn’t tell me, but I knew.”

  “You’ll have to become a better liar,” Zehava observed wryly.

  “Not with those I love,” Rohan replied firmly.

  “Do you?”

  He held tighter to his father’s hand. “Yes. I never really knew you, either. And I’m sorry for it. But I do love you.”

  Sunlight crept a finger’s width across the bed before the old prince spoke again. “A pity we never really talked before now.”

  “But we are talking, and that’s what’s important.” Rohan tried to believe it, tried to forget all the years when one approached the other and found only incomprehension.

  “If you have daughters—and I hope you will, for there’s no delight in a man’s life like a daughter—” He coughed and again Rohan gave him the square of damp silk. Zehava nodded his thanks and continued, “Indulge your daughters as shamefully as I’ve done with Tobin. It’s a husband’s duty to tame a woman, not her father’s.”

  Rohan chuckled. “Chay hasn’t had much luck that I can see!”

  Zehava grinned at him. “Remember that with your own wife! Don’t break her spirit, but let her know who’s master in your bed. Have you ever had a woman?”

  Rohan cursed himself for blushing. “I’m not entirely ignorant.”

  “A nice, evasive answer. You’ve a talent for them. I wish I could meet the girl who’ll make a man of you. But remember to make a woman of her at the same time. Your woman.”

  Again he thought of the grave, earnest face framed in fire-gold hair, and said nothing.

  “Be tender of your mother’s feelings, but don’t let her meddle. Your wife will be princess here, and you mustn’t let Milar trod the girl underfoot.”

  “I’m sure Mother will understand.”

  “Your mother understands nothing except that I’m dying.”

  “She loves you so much,” Rohan whispered. “I hope I’m as lucky in my wife.”

  Zehava sighed quietly. “Take my ashes to Rivenrock and blow them in the face of that damned grandsire who killed me.”

  “I’ll do better than that,” Rohan promised. “I’ll mingle his ashes with yours and let the winds take them the length and breadth of the Desert.”

  The black eyes gleamed. “If you aren’t the most perverse son a man ever had! Yes, do that. I’d like that. Two old dragons.”

  “Exactly,” Rohan replied with a smile, amazed and grateful that his father had not questioned his ability to kill the dragon.

  “Let me sleep for a while, and then send your mother to me. She’ll need you, Rohan. Tobin has Chay, and you’ll have your duties. But Mila won’t have anyone.” He sank deeper into the pillows. “Poor Mila. My poor darling . . .” He paused for a moment, then repeated, “You’ll have your duties. It’s good that you’ll go through them alone. That’s a cruel thing, but necessary. You’ll have to stand alone, my son. Do it proudly. Not even your wife can share it all. Find someone who understands that.”

  Rohan hesitated, then decided to tell him. “I’ve already found a wife.”

  Zehava struggled for a moment to sit up, eyes blazing, then collapsed back into the pillows with a grunt. Rohan didn’t fuss over him, knowing it would only irritate him. “Who is she?” the old prince demanded. “What’s her name?”

  “Sioned,” he murmured.

  “Does your mother know?”

  “No one knows except Andrade.”

  Another short laugh escaped his lips. “Andrade, eh? Well. The family witch. Don’t let her trap you. She’s sly and does as she pleases for her own reasons.”

  “I know. I’ve learned a few things from her over the years.” He grinned down at his father.

  Zehava choked again on laughter, forcing himself to calm down as a spasm of pain hit him. “Oh, by the Storm Devil, I wish I could see the prince you’ll make! I never knew you before, Rohan. Promise me you’ll talk to your own sons more than I talked to you.”

  He could think of no reply, so he merely nodded. Then he bent and pressed his lips to his father’s hand in token of homage and love. Before the stinging in his eyes could become tears, he said, “Rest now. I’ll send Mother to you in a little while.” Then he left the chamber.

  At his own suite he dismissed his squire and stood before the open windows, looking down at his mother’s gardens below. He’d done what he’d promised himself he’d do: ease his father’s worries so he could die in peace. Zehava no longer feared for his son or his lands. It would be a long time before his son stopped fearing for himself.

  Stronghold was hushed, and would remain so until Zehava was dead and his pyre extinguished. Rohan felt he was living in a silent shadow-world, alone and not quite real. The only reality was in fire—the dying blaze of his father’s life, the flames that would engulf Zehava’s remains, the light in the Flametower that would be quenched and then relit, and the face he had seen framed in burning red-gold hair. Himself a wraith wrapped in shadows, he could think of those fires but not be lit by them. Flames would make him prince, husband, and—he hoped—lover. But right now they had no power to illumine those future selves.

  He listened to the quiet and watched the patterns of shadow
play over the trees below. He should be thinking of the time when his own light would kindle and spread across the Desert with a very different blaze than his father’s. He should be thinking about his bride’s arrival, his mother’s anguish, his sister’s and nephews’ inheritances from Zehava. The hundred details of death and the million more of life ongoing should be occupying his mind. But Rohan inhabited the shadows of Stronghold, waiting for the fire.

  Legend had it that long ago when the world was very young, the first Sunrunners had learned from the Goddess how to weave light. Fire, pleased to be the source of their weavings, struck bargains with her brothers Earth and Air so that faradh’im might work their magic unmolested. But their sister Water proved recalcitrant, being Fire’s natural enemy; though she could not interfere with Sunrunners gliding over her on light, she proved remarkably resourceful when they attempted to cross her in person. Placid Earth did not much care what happened above him, being constantly busy with his own concerns, but whimsical Air sometimes gave Water a little help, blowing up fearful gusts whenever a faradhi was foolish enough to sail on the open sea. Help or not, Water enjoyed herself every time a Sunrunner so much as rowed across a stream.

  Thus the ten Sunrunners in Sioned’s bridal party looked in dismay at the wide expanse of the Faolain River and gulped. Camigwen reined in her horse, staring at the rushing river. “I am not looking forward to this,” she stated.

  Ostvel laughed at her. “It’s only one little river.”

  “Little?”

  “We went a hundred measures out of our way to avoid the wider crossings,” he reminded her.

  Sioned sighed. “A good thing, too, or I’d arrived at Stronghold not fit to speak with.”

  When Ostvel laughed again, Cami chided, “Oh, stop it! You don’t know what it’s like to look at that river and know you’re going to be deathly ill!”

  “Ah, but you don’t know what it’s like to set sail to Kierst-Isel, the sun overhead and the wind at your back, sails tight and deck swaying beneath your feet—”

  “Ostvel, please!” Sioned begged.

  He winked at her. “You’re definitely going to the right country,” he teased, then tossed his reins to Cami and swung down off his horse. “Here, hold onto these while I bargain with the riverman for a decent passage fee.”