Five days later, riding up the steep path to Skybowl, Rohan still chuckled over Lord Hadaan’s send-off. “Make sure that boy retains full use of his limbs and wits,” the old man had ordered gruffly. “He’ll need them if he’s to make something out of this old wreck.” Nothing else had been said of the matter, but a slap on the shoulder and the growled caution indicated Hadaan’s approval of Rohan’s choice for the next athri of Remagev. It was most gratifying, even if his shoulder had twinged all day afterward with the enthusiasm of his kinsman’s farewell salute.
As the riders reached the lip of the ancient crater, Rohan drew rein to appreciate the vast blue lake. Skybowl Keep crouched on the shore like a bad-tempered gray dragon, wings folded at odd angles and claws dug deep into the stony soil. A road wide enough for three horses circled the lake, and a narrower path wound upward on the far side to disappear over the cliff. This led to the dragon caves.
“It’s beautiful!” Tilal said at Rohan’s side. “All that water!”
“You’re starting to sound Desert-bred. Perhaps while we’re here the dragons will come for a drink.”
“Do you think so, my lord? I’ve never seen one up close, only flying over River Run. Are they really as big as people say?”
“Bigger.” Rohan’s attention was caught by a small group of riders leaving the keep, and he squinted into the afternoon sunlight. Lord Farid was easily distinguished by his loose white robes and heavy beard, but the other four were unknown to Rohan. He touched his heels to Pashta’s ribs and rode forward.
“My lord prince!” Farid hailed him. “If it’s ar^u, :.* you’re seeking, we’ve just had word they’re on the hiRh cliffs!”
“Then let’s go watch!” He beckoned Walvis forward and said, “Take the others in and see to the horses. Tilal, how would you like to come with me?”
“May I, my lord?” The boy bounced in his saddle and his horse gave an irritated snort. “I won’t get in the way, I promise.” This with a sidelong glance at Walvis, who smiled and held out a hand to take the prince’s standard.
Rohan and Farid exchanged news as they headed for the cliff path. After a time the old man called one of his escort forward for an introduction that made Rohan forget his manners and simply stare as Feylin of Skybowl was presented to him. It seemed that his counter of dragons was a woman—and a young and pretty one at that.
She acknowledged his surprise with a wry smile that lit up her deeply tanned face. “It’s an honor to meet you at last, my lord,” she said. “And to be chasing dragons with you!”
“The honor is mine,” he said, recovering himself. “Forgive me for staring, but you’re very young to know so much and be so good at what you do for me.”
“Nineteen last autumn,” she replied cheerfully. “Full young, I’ll admit, but sharp-eyed and able to count—and to make sense of what I’ve counted.”
“So I’ve discovered.” He smiled, liking her easy manners. “Have you always watched dragons?”
“Ever since I was a little girl. Where we lived up by the Cunaxan border, the grounds were so” near that we felt the wind of their wings and made knives of their teeth.” She pulled a dagger from her belt and passed it to him, haft-first.
The knife was suitable for stabbing, not slicing, but the point was needle fine and would go through a man’s belly all the way to his backbone. “Did you have to argue much with the dragon who used to own this?” Rohan asked as he handed it back.
Feylin laughed and thrust the dagger back into its sheath. “Not me, my lord! I never went near their homes until they’d flown back south. Get near those rows of teeth, most of them twice the size of this one? Not me!”
They reached the narrow path that led up the side of the crater, and it became necessary to ride single file. Rohan found it frustrating not to continue his talk with this gray-eyed girl who counted his dragons and probably knew as much about them as he did. But he promised himself a good long discussion with Feylin in private once they returned to the keep.
It was slow going along the ledge, and as Rohan guided Pashta close behind Farid’s dappled gray, he imagined what it must be like to traverse this path with heavy dragon gold off-balancing rider and horse. A better road would have alerted outsiders to strange happenings at Skybowl, though. From the cliffs they rode down a slippery trail into a canyon where the wind had carved sculptures both beautiful and grotesque. Lumpish castles boasted graceful spires; hideous creatures sprouted multiple limbs; huge rocks seemed balanced on fragile spikes no wider than a swordblade. The rock shaded from garnet to amber to onyx, colors slicing through each other at strange, dizzying angles. The Court of the Storm God it was called, and Rohan’s active imagination created a variety of impossible monsters lurking among the shadows. He had seen the canyon in most of its rnoods, from blazing morning to weird sunset to skin-chilling moonlight, when the shadows blurred and sometimes tripled depending on the position of the moons in the sky.
A full five measures of precipitous trail wound through the Court, and the riders maintained a respectful silence. Then Farid led them in the opposite direction from the caves, explaining to Rohan over his shoulder that the valley nearby was the perfect place for the dragons to perform their dances, and beyond this were more cliffs where even now the bittersweet plants were being devoured. Rohan knew the trail well; the crop of bittersweet was the one he and Farid had laced with dranath,
He glanced around at Tilal, whose eyes were circles of astonished curiosity. A pity he was the younger son and would not inherit River Run; the education and experience he was gaining in the Desert would have made him a fine athri. Perhaps when he reached Walvis’ age and was knighted, Rohan could find a place for him that would utilize the talents being nurtured now.
After a steep climb out of the Court they halted on a crest to look out over a sandy valley. She-dragons rested in the sun, wajlowing in warmth. Pale bronze and dark scarlet and deep silver-gray hides soaked up afternoon sun; here and there a wing slowly unfolded to gather up as much heat as possible, and great heads turned with snapping jaws when a neighbor crowded too close. They were huge, deadly, the most beautiful things Rohan had ever seen—but so few. He counted rapidly, and found that of the thirty-two females Feylin had reported, only nineteen lounged here on the sand. Gesturing her to his side, he asked, “Where are the others?”
She shrugged, tossing her untidy dark red braid back over her shoulder. “I don’t know, my lord. They may have flown off looking for caves. They won’t go near the ones at Skybowl. Lord Farid ordered them cleared out twenty days ago, hoping the dragons would use them this year, but I’m sure they sense that people have been there. Dragons are more intelligent than anybody thinks.”
Farid guided his horse over and said, “I’m worried about the sires, too. Perhaps they’re with their ether ladies, but where?”
“The North Vere is too cold,” Feylin mused. “The eggs would take too long to hatch. Down south it’s hot enough, but except for Rivenrock most of the caves have collapsed. I made a survey last year, my lord,” she explained as Rohan questioned her with a lifted brow. “The only suitable caves are here and at a place just this side of Feruche Castle. Hot enough, big enough, sturdy enough, and with bittersweet growing nearby to get those old sires ready.” she grinned. “That’s what the plant’s for, you know.”
Rohan choked on sudden laughter. “Is it really? I’ll have to wrap some up and make a present of it to Roelstra.”
Farid, straight-faced but with a gleeful, malicious sparkle in his eyes, said, “It’s rumored that the production of daughters is down because certain things have trouble coming up.”
Tilal, whose gaze had never left the dragons, called out softly, “My lord! I think they’ve seen us!”
Rohan’s attention turned to the valley, where several females had raised their heads to stare up at the ridge. “We’d best be off, then. I wouldn’t want to disturb these ladies from their naps. But I’d like a look at the sires. Farid, do you think they might be up on the cliffs? It won’t be dark for some time yet.”
Once out of sight of the she-dragons, they were able to pick up the pace without fear of attracting unwanted attention. The going was easier, too, as they followed an ancient riverbed down from the hillcrest and then went up another slope. They heard the dragons long before they reached the summit that overlooked a boulder-strewn gorge. On the far cliffs three massive sires were busy tearing up bittersweet by the roots. Occasionally one would roar at the others, and the echoes set off clattering rockslides.
Tilal’s jaw had descended to his che-st. “My lord, is it true you killed one of those!” he whispered.
“Yes,” Rohan answered curtly, not wanting to remember. “Let’s go closer, Farid.” Slanting an amused glance at Feylin, he added, “I’ll hold you excused from joining us.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said fervently, wide and wary eyes on the three sires.
Scrub grew along the summit, dry bushes barely green in which a few birds perched on their way elsewhere. The shadows were deepening as the sun slowly fell, but Rohan had no thought for the time. He wanted to see those dragons up close—strong, healthy, proud creatures, not corpses rotting in the sand.
“Up there, my lord!” Tilal gasped, pointing to the sky.
A dozen more dragons sailed through the air on powerful wings, the missing females in northward flight. They paid no attention to the sires who screamed to attract them. Coppery and black and green-brown, the she-dragons flew in their arrogant strength, and Rohan suddenly laughed aloud with the joy of their freedom. He gave in to impulse and pressed his stallion into a gallop. Farid called out a caution that he ignored. He urged Pashta to greater speed along the hills and they soared o\er Te rocky ground, his golden robe billowing out behind nim like wings. He, too, was a dragon in free flight.
The way descended for half a measure, than banked steeply up. He could see the dragons above him and knew they would soon outdistance him and disappear into the mountains around Feruche—and damn lanthe, who would probably send out her latest lover to slaughter a dragon for her whims. The wind swirled around him, blew Pashta’s mane back into his eyes, whipped at his face and half-bared chest. Leaping a huge boulder, for just an instant he felt the surge of muscle and wing that would take him skyward along with the dragons—
A searing pain struck his right shoulder and he thought a rock had flown up from the stallion’s hooves. But something dragged at the wound. He groped around with his left hand, drawing rein with the right that was beginning to go slightly numb, and his fingers snagged at the hilt of a knife.
A stand of thin, dry shrubs was ahead of him, and from it ran six men on foot, some with bows, others with swords. Pashta skidded on the loose stones, shrieking a battle challenge as his blood and training dictated, and reared up with hooves lashing out. Rohan hung on, grasping his sword with his left hand and one of his boot-knives with his right. The men came for him, one of them grabbing the stallion’s bridle as he came down; a powerful yank jerked the horse’s head around and the man lost a chunk of sleeve and flesh for his pains. But balance was lost. Even as Rohan hacked through upraised arms and stabbed into chests, Pashta foundered and Rohan toppled to the ground.
His vision exploded in black rainbows as a hand pulled at the knife in his shoulder, tearing down through muscle. His sword was wrested from his grip. He tried to roll away, but the man still had a grip on the blade and twisted it once again. Instinct alone drove his elbow back into the man’s belly. Momentarily freed, he wrenched the knife from his flesh. The pain sent him reeling.
He heard Farid’s shout of his name, Tilal’s frantic call. He spun, crying out an order for them to leave him. He could see nothing, feel nothing but the incredible fire in his shoulder and a new stabbing pain along his thigh. He fumbled at it, and the pain of removing the arrow somehow cleared his vision. A half-sensed movement made him turn and thrust with the knife that still had his blood on it. But his eyes betrayed him then, gaze flickering down at the arrow’s fletching, expecting to confirm suspicion by the sight of Merida colors. The glance was an unforgivable mistake^ for it left him open to the blow that felled him. As he crumpled into the dirt, the colors that chased him into unconsciousness were not Merida brown and green, but violet edged in gold. Roelstra’s colors—and lanthe’s.
Feylin watched shadows fill the valley like an onrush-ing tide, indigo and deep brown and a strange greenish black. On the cliffs the dragonsires seemed to have melted into the stone. She shook her head, asking herself why men were so stupidly reckless. Dragons were marvels to behold—but at a nice, safe distance. Prince Rohan, Lord Farid, and the young squire ought to have returned by now from their foolish dragon-chasing, and she said as much to the man beside her.
Darfir shrugged and cast an uneasy look across the gorge to the invisible dragons. “His lordship knows his way home.”
Though his words were casual enough, his hands constantly slid up and down the reins and his eyes constantly scanned the trail. Feylin bit her lip. “We’ll wait for them,” she said, and peered into the dying light.
A short time later Darfir gave a muffled curse and pointed to the cliffs. A great winged shadow appeared against the dusky sky and launched itself into flight. Feylin’s blood congealed as the dragon bellowed a hunting-cry familiar to her from childhood.
“Sweet Goddess,” Darfir whispered. “Is he coming after us?”
“No,” another of the men said. “Look.”
The dragon swooped into the gorge and was swallowed in darkness. A horse’s thin scream rose and abruptly died. Moments later the sire lifted into the sky once more, flying to a remote perch with a large, limp shape dangling from his talons. Even at a distance, the piebald hide showed that this was the squire’s mount.
“Oh, no,” Feylin breathed, and in the next instant dug her heels into her horse’s flanks. The others followed her, the arrhythmic pattern of hoofbeats in perfect keeping with the uncertain pounding of her heart.
Suddenly she drew rein, for ahead of her trotted Lord Farid’s dappled gelding, heading home. Darfir rode forward and grabbed the horse’s reins. A quick inspection showed the nicks in his hide and blood on the reins where Farid’s hand would have held them.
“He knows his way home, unlike the one the dragon caught,” Darfir said grimly. “As for the prince’s stallion— he could be anywhere by now.”
“They didn’t fall from their horses,” Feylin said softly.
The oldest of the men, Lhoys, growled through his beard, “Whatever lost them their mounts walked on two legs and drew steel against them.”
“Or glass,” Feylin added. “And they won’t have waited around, either. Can you find the tracks, Lhoys?”
The old man nodded and dismounted to scrutinize the ground. “Bring the gelding. We may have need of him.”
Feylin glanced at Darfir. “What do you think happened?”
“How could the Merida have come so far south without our knowing?”
“They wouldn’t dare.” But it was a feeble protest.
Lhoys had gone some distance from them, and now turned to call out success. After half a measure they found the place where the squire’s horse had turned into the gorge, prints indicating a panicky gallop. They rode on in silence as the light worsened and every shape became a threat. At last Feylin stopped, seeing a stand of brush and a dark shape on the ground. She cried out and leaped down from her saddle.
Farid sprawled in a dirt-thickened puddle of his own blood, a gaping wound in his side, sword still in his hand, the blade dark with blood. Death had not gentled his face, and as she crouched beside him she almost expected him to sit up and bellow out his rage before slashing into his attackers again. Smoothing his features tenderly, she closed his sightless eyes and bent her head.
“Look here,” Lhoys called out, and she glanced up, tears blurring her eyes. The old man was a few strides away, pointing at the ground. “There’s blood all over. Our lord and his grace gave good accounts of themselves. Signs of bodies being dragged—see the marks of bootheels in the dirt? Three men were unable to walk by the time this was over.”
“Or two of them and Prince Rohan,” Feylin said, shivering.
“Did he wear spurs? These three did.”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember.”
“Trained by his father and mounted by Lord Chaynal on a horse like that? No spur ever touched that stallion— nor any other Prince Rohan ever rode.”
She knuckled her eyes and said, “Darfir, put our lord on his horse. We’ll take him back home.”
“We follow the tracks as far as we can,” Lhoys growled.
“There’s no more light,” Darfir protested.
Lhoys cursed and spat, and set off anyway. Feylin caught up with him. “What if we find them? Four of us against however many of them? And with a sword at the prince’s throat? And what about the boy?”
“Small enough to carry, of course. I thought you were careful about observing things.”
“And I thought you were a goldsmith.” “ Lhoys snorted. “Only after I had my bellyful of guiding other people’s riches through the mountains, girl. There are less dangerous livings.”
Twilight guided them to a rocky outcropping. Lhoys shook her head in defeat. “Six horses, by the scars on the bushes where they tied the reins. They took the harder path from here. Not even I could find them now.”
“Lhoys, look over here.” Feylin picked up a small, shiny object that had caught her eye. “It’s a coin—no, a medallion.”
He took it from her, ran a finger over both surfaces. “Minted back when the Merida held Stronghold. They had a legendary goldsmith then. I recognize the work.” He spat again. “Merida—damn them!” As they went back to the others, he asked, “Did you ever see his princess?”
“No. All the times they’ve visited, I’ve been ou- _~ --ing dragons.”
“Fire in her hair and called to her hand when she pleases—but nothing compared to the Fire that will kindle around the Merida when she learns of this. She’ll lead whole armies to get him back.”
“They’ll kill him if she tries!”
Lhoys’ eyes glittered in the dimness. “You’ve never seen the princess,” he said.
Beliaev rubbed at the ritual scar on his chin and glared at the shy slivers of the moons just visible between the jagged mountains. In only a few days they would rise full and provide light enough to ride by. As it was, he was in constant danger of slipping on treacherous rock or missing an essential landmark. The timing had been all wrong, he complained to himself as he rode, and the bitch princess was not going to be pleased. Well, that was her problem, Beliaev thought, and cursed as his gelding’s forelegs skidded on loose stones. How could he have known that fool of a prince would go out sightseeing dragons so soon? How could he have anticipated that Rohan would ride through the very hills where Beliaev and his men were scouting suitable ambush?
They had arrived only yesterday. That meager stand of brush would not have been Beliaev’s choice for cover, but he supposed things had worked out profitably despite the haste of the arrangements. He tugged the lead rein and indulged himself by spitting on the prince’s blond head. Rohan was slung across the saddle like a sack of grain. Rope tying his wrists and ankles passed tight beneath the horse’s belly. “Beside him was one of Beliaev’s dead, with a heavy cloth wrapped around his nearly severed arm so dripping blood would not provide a trail. The royal sword responsible for that death and yet another was now in Beliaev’s possession, along with the prince’s knives—he’d been warned about those—and the sleeveless golden robe. He rubbed his cheek to his shoulder, smooth silk and prickly silver embroidery luxurious against his skin. A pity the garment had been ruined by rips and blood, but perhaps the princess’ women could mend and clean it. Now that they’d finished their hellish dragon tapestries, they had nothing better to do.
His mount’s hooves skittered again, and Beliaev yelped a warning to the men behind him. Two of them were wounded, two of them dead and tied across saddles, and one was holding the bound and gagged squire in front of him. It had cost precious time to secure the casualties, and the going was slow with three horses on leading reins. But leaving the men behind was unthinkable. They were lanthe’s and identifiable as such by their clothes— and that damned arrow it had taken so long to find in the dirt. The prince’s people must believe that the Merida alone were responsible for Rohan’s capture; thus the medallion left where someone would surely find it. Beliaev grinned at the thought of Lord Chaynal riding north at the head of the Desert armies to the plains outside Tiglath— right past Feruche where Rohan would be kept until lanthe had done whatever it was she planned to do to him. For his own part, Beliaev would just as soon have carved the prince up into interesting shapes to be sent back to his Sunrunner witch of a wife, but lanthe had forbidden it. She had assured him that the eventual outcome would be much more satisfying, and there had been a feral glow in her eyes that made doubt impossible.
Not that he trusted her, he mused as he leaned slightly back in his saddle, trying to ease the ache in his back. Lord Farid had gotten in a powerful kick while still on horseback, and it had been a real pleasure to shove his sword into the old man’s side. There were bruises elsewhere, too, that riding did nothing to soothe. Thirty more measures to Feruche, and then he would bask in the attentions of the princess’ women while Rohan was given over to lanthe. Beliaev trusted her not at all, but any change in plan would not profit him at this time. Possibilities teased him about her plans for the prince, but ended in a shrug. She could keep Rohan for a pet or throw him from the cliffs for all Beliaev cared.
He stretched, unable to spare a hand from reins or lead rope to rub his spine, and thought about the speediest way to get word to his brothers in the north that preparations would have to be hastened. The attack on Tiglath— bold stroke, that — would have to begin c-r. -- --i-planned. lanthe and Roelstra had warned against ::. r-j-there would never be a better time for the obliteration the city. The High Prince, in collusion with young Prince Jastri of Syr, would soon be conducting military maneuvers on the Syrene side of the Faolain River. It was Roelstra’s plan to use these armies to annihilate in one swift battle all the troops the Desert could muster. Thus he had ordered the Merida to make no move against Tiglath which would compel Lord Chaynal to split his forces to north and south. But Tiglath lay there ripe and waiting, and if the High Prince thought the Merida would pass up this chance, he was very much mistaken. If the horse-thieving Lord of Radzyn’s army divided to defend Tiglath as well as the Faolain border, too bad for Roelstra. Actually, Beliaev told himself, he’d be doing Roelstra a favor by taking care of half the Desert for him. And, too, with Tiglath in Merida hands, Roelstra would have no way to renege on his promise that the northern Desert would return to its rightful owners. Beliaev did not trust the High Prince, either.
He glanced down as Rohan’s fair head moved and a strangled groan escaped his throat. Sliding his foot from the stirrup, he delivered a careful kick just above Rohan’s ear. No further damage could be risked for fear of lanthe’s wrath. The prince subsided back into senselessness. Feeble moonlight shone off the bloodstain on his shoulder, and Beliaev smiled. Rotten timing or no, he had Rohan secure and would deliver him as promised. By winter the Merida would rule from Stronghold once more.
This happy thought sustained him through the next few measures of winding mountain tails. At last the sun began to finger tentatively at the eastern sky, and Beliaev picked up the pace a little. He cursed the necessity of swinging wide around the Desert garrison below Feruche, for the back route added another ten measures to an already interminable journey. But it would all be for nothing if Rohan’s men spotted this strange party riding into Feruche.
The sun was summer-hot overhead all day, and by dusk was still brutal. At long last Beliaev led the group through the narrow back pass. Startled guards at lonely posts called down challenges he answered with a snarl. The castle spires rose beyond the rocks, tantalizing him for a full three measures before he finally reached the gates. Inside the courtyard he swung down off his horse, aching in every muscle, and seized the waterskin off the first servant who approached. After emptying it down his throat, he heaved a vast sigh and turned as lanthe called imperiously from the staircase.
“What are you doing here so soon?”
“Be happy I’m here at all,” he snapped back. Goddess, but the woman was beautiful, he thought. His gaze ran over the perfect body barely concealed by axyellow silk bedrobe. Her hair was in tangles and her feet were bare, and it was obvious that she had been aroused from a nap by his arrival with her prize. As her face suddenly lit with an inner fire, he knew she had spotted Rohan.
“He’s not hurt, is he?” she asked, anxious as any mother, though there was nothing tender in her sharp dark eyes.
“Not much. A nick in his shoulder and a sore head. He’s all yours, princess. Do what you want with him.”
“I intend to,” she said, and gestured to her hovering women. They maneuvered the prince to the ground and two men came forward with a litter. As Rohan was carried into the keep, lanthe caught sight of the boy. “What’s that?”
“His squire, I should think. Farid died in the skirmish. I didn’t think you’d mind about that, but I do draw the line at killing children.”
“So you do have limits. How interesting. Untie the gag. I want to hear what he has to say.”
Stiff from a long night and longer day spent slung across a saddle, the boy’s blood quickly warmed with the chance to vent his fury. He spat on the ground as the cloth was removed from his mouth, then spat once more, this time at lanthe.
She backed off a pace, scowling. “Don’t try that again, brat! What’s your name?”
He set his jaw stubbornly and glared at her.
“Speak while you’ve still the tongue to do so!”
Green eyes \videned, but he said nothing.
“Those aren’t just Rohan’s colors you’re wearing,” lanthe mused. “The blue and silver are his, but the black and green—“ Tapping a finger against one flawless cheek, she began to laugh. “Oh, I should have known it by the eyes! You’re related to the Sunrunner witch, a kinsman from River Run!” Turning to Beliaev, she said, “How wise of you not to kill him. He’ll be my messenger back to Sioned. Do you know what you’ll be telling her, boy?” she directed at the squire with a viciously sweet smile. “That an army of Sunrunners won’t get her precious prince back for her, not even with Andrade at its head and down on her knees before my father the High Prince. Rohan is all mine now, little one, as he should have been from the start. I’ll let you keep your tongue after all, so you can tell Sioned exactly what you’ll see while you’re here.”
“She’ll kill you!” the boy burst out.
“Afaradhi, kill? Never! She hasn’t the courage. None of them do. But I’m a different sort, as your prince will find out soon enough. Beliaev, see that the brat is cleaned and fed. I want him in good condition for his journey back to Stronghold.”
“What are you going to do to my lord?” the boy cried out.
“Things you won’t be interested in until you’re older,” she laughed. “But I may let you watch so you can be educated—and so you can tell that green-eyed bitch exactly what sort of care I gave her beloved.”
She swept away up the stairs, calling for her women to minister to the prince’s wounds. Beliaev, understanding at last when she really wanted from Rohan, remembered the dragon tapestries and was very glad they had not been stitched with himself in mind.