Late in the day the cool scents of water and trees around the Faolain gave way to the warm smells of food cooking in the great firepits of the Desert camp. A sentry could be forgiven a certain drowsiness after a long, uneventful watch, especially if her duty was nearly over and dinner enticed on the breeze. In the ten days since the battle, nothing had happened and nothing was likely to before sunset;-she shrugged to herself and found a more comfortable position with her back against a tree, eyes closed.
“Were I the High Prince, you’d be dead right now.”
The clear incisive voice snapped her upright, arrow nocked and bow drawn with admirable speed. But she lowered her arms at once and bent her head. “My l-lord prince!” she gasped.
Eyes of wintry blue gazed down at her when she dared lift her face again. She had seen the old prince once or twice on his visits to the small coastal holding she called home, and this young man was suddenly very like him— not in coloring or size, but in the expression that chilled his thin face.
“Now that you’re awake,” he went on, “perhaps you’d be so good as to inform me of Lord Chaynal’s whereabouts.”
“In his tent, your grace, with young Lord Maarken and Lord Davvi of River Run.”
He nodded, his blond hair catching every ray of fading sunlight. “Having just come down the northern road, I can assure you it is free of enemies. But had it not been. . . .” He raised a brow. “Do I make myself understood?”
“Yes, your grace.”
“Good. You have my permission to inform Chaynal that I am here.”
She bowed again and fled.
Rohan heard the sound begin as he rode forward, a murmuring that swelled to cheers when they caught sight of him. He had heard soldiers greet his father this way, seen them emerge from their tents and leave off work to line his path with shouts of welcome, swords and bows lifted with pride in the victory Zehava always brought with him. But the accolade and the tumultuous welcome were not for his father this time. They were for him. Rohan. Their dragon prince. The knowledge made him a little sick.
He had brought with him twenty archers and thirty horse, and his squire Tilal. The one pleasure he had was knowing the boy would be reunited with his father. The prospect of explaining events to Chay was not something to be anticipated with anything other than dread. He cursed his cowardice and kept all emotion from his face as he rode to the plain dark war tent, distinguished from the others by the Radzyn standard hanging from a silver pole. Desert colors would soon take its place, and Chay’s flag would shift to the other side of the entrance. As if, Rohan told himself, he would be in command of this war.
Chay was waiting for him along with the captains and a man bearing a superficial likeness to Sioned and a much stronger one to Tilal. And could that possibly be Maarken? He returned their bows with a crisp nod, grateful for rituals a prince could hide behind. Thank the Goddess for ceremony, no matter how false. No, he corrected, there was no falseness here but him.
“My prince,” Chay greeted him, sending an urgent message with his eyes. Rohan understood. His people pressed close for a word from their prince, and he would have to give it. He dug his heels into his stallion’s sides and pulled back on the reins. His beloved Pashta, restored to him from Skybowl, rose impressively on his haunches and swerved around. Rohan held up his fisted right hand, and all was silence. He smiled tightly.
“Tonight the High Prince rests across the river in his camp. But, by the Goddess, soon he will find eternal rest.”
A roar went up and Rohan gave himself acid congratulations for the stupid speech—brief enough to be repeated verbatim throughout the camp tonight. He noted Chay’s approval as he swung down off his horse. Tossing the reins to Tilal, he drew off his riding gauntlets and approached Lord Dawi, whom he had met only once, and very briefly, at Stronghold two years ago.
“My lady wife has told me of your goodness in coming to us,” he said formally, aware of being watched. He wished he could let down even a little of his guard, but that would have to come later, in private. “I thank you for your help, my lord, and will talk longer with you later. But for now I think there’s someone else here with a prior claim on your attention.” He nodded to Tilal, who was practically dancing with excitement.
Dawi had scarcely been able to take his eyes off his son. Now he gave Rohan a slightly abashed smile. “Your grace, I’m honored by your friendship and your indulgence. I would indeed like to speak with my son.”
The curve of his lips felt strange; it was the first genuine smile that had come to him in a long time. “Until later then, my lord.” As Dawi want to embrace Tilal, Rohan saw that Chay had dismissed the captains and sent them to give orders that should have dispersed the troops.
But one of them shouted Rohan’s name, and the cry was taken up, turned into a chant, bellowed out loud enough to be heard by Roelstra all the way across the river. Rohan paused on his way to the tent, his people’s excitement and faith catching painfully at his heart. He lifted a hand to accept the tribute, then sought refuge in the cool, dim interior of the tent.
Maarken, acting as Chay’s squire, presented chairs and goblets of wine to his princely uncle and his father, then stood waiting for further orders. Both men sat, drank, and stared at each other for a time. Chay roused himself first.
“That will be all, Maarken,” he told his son. “Come back later to remove my things from here and—“
“No!” Rohan exclaimed. Then, more calmly as he saw their startlement. “No, I don’t fancy being alone in this great wind-tunnel you call a tent, Chay. Maarken, you and Tilal set up a bed for me in here, please.”
“I’m honored to serve you, my prince.” The boy bowed to him.
Again Rohan felt himself smile, and it felt more natural this time. “You’ve grown up, I see. Lleyn has taught you very well. But I think here in private we may be as we always were to each other.”
The stiffness went out of the young body and Maarken gave him a smile. “I could hardly believe it when I felt Sioned’s colors on the sun and she told me you were both safe! Did you hear the soldiers shouting for you? They say your dragons protect you—and their strength and cunning come with you.”
“Is that what they say?”
The edge in his voice darkened Chay’s quicksilver eyes. “You can go now, son. I’ll call when you’re needed.”
“Yes, my lord.” Maarken bowed, formal again, and left them.
“Very grown up,” Rohan observed. “You must be proud.”
“I am,” Chay said simply. “Tell me what Sioned didn’t tell Maarken.”
Rohan shrugged. “I don’t know that she left anything out.”
Chay leaned back with a snort of derision. “This is me, Rohan. I’ve known you practically from a hatchling, my lord dragon prince. What happened at Feruche?”
“What you really mean is why did lanthe let us go.” He took a long swallow of wine. “Swear to me that this goes no further. On your sword and the lives of your sons, Chay—swear.”
The older man froze for a moment. Then, slowly, he said, “You know me better, so you must be trying to impress me with how serious this is. Very well. I so swear.”
“I meant no insult.” He rolled the goblet between his hands, staring down into the swirling dark wine. “Sioned—“ The catch in his voice humiliated him. “She’s emptied Stronghold again. Those not with me went to Sky bowl to take care of the Merida there, and will go on to Walvis at Tiglath. She says—and Tobin agrees with her—that if anyone gets close enough to threaten Stronghold again, there won’t be anyone left to save it for anyway.”
“Logical,” Chay grunted. “Why are women always so logical?”
“Most of the servants went to Remagev with the twins. Only a few stayed behind at Stronghold—those loyal enough to lie.”
“About what?”
“Ah. Then she didn’t tell Maarken.” He took another swallow of wine. “There’s to be a child in midwinter, lanthe got what she wanted of me.”
Chay’s expressive face was immobile with shock. Rohan shrugged.
“Aren’t you going to ask how she managed it? The first time I thought she was Sioned. The second time—I raped her. I should have killed her. I didn’t. She timed it perfectly and now she’s carrying my child. Sioned says it will be a boy. Beyond that she doesn’t say much at all. She won’t talk to me, Chay, and I can’t talk to her, I can’t—“
“No more,” Chay whispered. “This can wait.”
“I have to talk to someone!”
Chay set his winecup down and rose, deliberately looming over Rohan. “You have an army awaiting your commands. You have an enemy across the river who wants you dead. Feel sorry for yourself some other time—when you have the time!”
Rohan knew he was being manipulated and part of him hated Chay for it. But this brother in all but blood was right—damn him. He saw the hard eyes watching for telltale changes in his face, and turned away. But even that movement was enough.
“That’s better,” Chay said, resuming his seat. “Now that you’re capable of thinking again, turn that mental maze of yours to this. I’ve given Roelstra ten days to get half his army across the bridges, and he hasn’t moved more than fifty men. We can withstand two more battles if we’re lucky—but that’s all. I wanted half his troops on this side to wipe them out and then I was going to cross and take care of the other half. But he’s not obliging me. If you have any suggestions, I’d like to hear them.”
Rohan nearly laughed. In camp only long enough to wet his throat, and Chay was asking him to make the kind of tactical decision he’d never been much good at anyway. He drank down the remains of the wine, got to his feet, and said, “I’m going for a walk. When I get back, I expect to see a bed waiting.”
“Have some dinner while you’re at it. The way you look now, you could hide behind your swordblade.”
“Is that what you think? That I want to hide?” he demanded.
A slight smile played around Chay’s mouth. “Much better. Now you’re a prince again.”
Urival watched long fingers drum impatiently on the table where a meal lay untouched. Candlelight picked out each gem in each ring as Andrade’s fingers lifted and fell in angry rhythm: ruby-agate-amethyst-sapphire on the left hand, emerald-topaz-garnet-diamond on the right. Both thumbs were flat on the polished wood, amber on one and moonstone on the other. On Andrade’s fingers were symbolized formidable attributes: luck in war, persuasiveness, nobility, truth, hope, intelligence, constancy, and cunning. But somehow Urival was more concerned with the two other stones, the ones that promised protection against danger and wisdom. They were sorely in need of both.
“Well? Is it merely the inactivity, or the inability to give them all orders?” he asked, deliberately provoking her.
“Would any of them listen? At least we’ll be spared the fine Lady Wisla from now on. Thoughtful of her to remove to River View.”
Urival nodded. The chamber in which they sat was Lord Dawi’s own at River Run, a tidy room unencumbered by his wife’s notions of elegance that burdened much of the rest of the keep. Lady Wisla had been faint with shock at receiving such august visitors, horrified by the revelation of Chiana’s identify, and only too glad to accept Urival’s private suggestion that she would find life much easier and safer at her late father’s keep of River View, five measures distant. Her absence freed them from her nervous whining and gave them a comfortable base of operations. The question, of course, was what sort of operations were possible. The faradh’im all knew where Andrade was—those not shut away from the light— and were constant in their reports. Andrade and Urival were close enough to observe both armies without strain, and far enough away to be undetected by Roelstra. If he decided to take Lord Davvi’s family hostage, they might find themselves in difficulties. But Roelstra had made no move toward River Run, probably surmising that Lady Wisla had long since departed. Urival, with the best charity in the world, could not discover a reason why any man would want to ransom such a wife.
Still, her household was efficient and she had left enough servants behind to cater to her guests’ needs. But lack of worry about ordinary matters here left too much time to think about the extraordinary events elsewhere.
“Still nothing from Sioned,” Urival said to himself.
“I can’t force her, thanks to the training you gave her,” Andrade snapped, fingers drumming faster now. “I need a Sunrunner at Stronghold, one I can trust to tell me what’s happening there.”
“And you no longer trust Sioned. That’s what you’re really saying. Andrade, you placed her where she is! Trained her, took her to Rohan already half in love with him, showed her to him so he was just as in love with her. You planned it, Andrade, and now you’re going to have to live with it.”
“You never let up, do you?” She paced in front of the windows, rings flashing as her fingers clenched and opened, clenched and opened. “How was I to know? What I foresaw and what’s turned out to be are so different. What should I have done?”
He shrugged. “Probably nothing at all.”
“Damn you, Urival, let me be!” she cried. “Don’t you know why I matched them in the first place? Faradhi princes would have ended all the petty quarrels—“
“You still don’t see it, do you?” He went to her, took her shoulders in his hands. “You always forget people, That’s what your new manner of princes will be. People with all the honor and vices and feelings the rest of us have. But you’ve never been very concerned with feelings, have you? Except when you can use them.” He frowned at the stubborn denial in her pale blue eye^ “Did you think you could use the children the way >ou used the parents?”
“Stop making me sound evil! I would have taught them, shaped them—“
“Made them tools for your ambition. What gives you the right, Andrade?”
“You want me to admit it?” she shouted, wrenching away from him. “Yes, I used them all, starting with my own sister and Zehava! I took the chance, hoping they’d produce a prince with the gifts. When they didn’t, I tried again with Sioned and Rohan.”
“Who next? Tobin’s sons? Andrade, you can’t use people that way—not and stay human yourself!”
“I loved them! I love Rohan and Sioned as if they were my own—and Tobin, and Chay, and their sons—“ She leaned her shoulder against the smooth stone walls, arms wrapped tightly around herself. “I loved them too much. I wanted too much for them. And I hated Roelstra even more than I loved the others. Does that make me human enough, Urival?”
“I think there’s something you haven’t learned yet,” he responded softly. “There’s nothing you can do now. Whatever you’ve set in motion, whatever your reasons, you’ll have to wait it through—just like everyone else.”
He was astounded when tears glittered in her eyes. “Drive in the knife a little deeper, why don’t you? Am I bleeding enough yet?”
He was even more astounded when he put his arms around her. “It’s not like you to be helpless,” he whispered against her silvering blonde hair. “It’s not like my Lady at all.”
The gardens Princess Milar had planned and cared for so lovingly wilted as summer dragged on. The grotto waterfall dwindled to a thin ribbon and the pond below it was nearly dry, thirsty plants and mosses drinking up what little moisture the spring provided. But it remained a haven of cool shade in the oppressive heat and silence of Stronghold, and it was to the grotto that Sioned often went in the long days of her waiting.
She did not go there to be alone. The keep was empty; she, Tobin, and Ostvel remained, along with Myrdal and three servants. The rest had gone with Rohan or north to Tiglath or to escort Sorin and Andry to Remagev. Solitude was a fact of life in Stronghold.
Neither did she seek the grotto to indulge herself in memories. The paradox was that empty as the keep always seemed to her when her husband was gone, his presence filled the place. The delicate balance between the ache of missing him and the ache of sensing him everywhere perfectly matched her equally precarious juggling of serenity and rage. Most of the time she preserved her equilibrium. When she could not, she went to the grotto and counted off each day of lanthe’s bearing, numbering the days left until midwinter when she would return to Feruche.
She had lost count of how many times she had felt the touch of Andrade’s colors on the sunlight. She had rejected each assault with defenses Urival had taught her— not because she feared Andrade would sway her, but because of her jealous guardianship of hard-won balance. The Lady’s arguments and prohibitions would have loosed Sioned’s rage, and she could not afford it. Not until midwinter, when she could face its object.
It was after yet another attempted contact one day, an insidious weaving of great skill that very nearly worked, that Sioned left the sunlit inner court where she had been currying her horse and made her way through the half-dead gardens to the grotto. A few paces from its sheltering trees she stopped, transfixed by sudden music. Ostvel’s lute sang so rarely that its notes brought tears to her eyes. It was said that the Storm God rarely gifted Sunrunners with the music that was his voice in the wind and water; Mardeem’s talent had been an anomaly. But Ostvel, for all that he had served most of his life at Goddess Keep and was now steward to a faradhi princess, had been gifted with the sensitive fingers and soul of a bard.
It was Camigwen’s favorite song he played. A sprightly ballad when she had been alive, since her death it had slowed to a stately tune that slipped every so often into a minor key. Sioned was filled with tender, painful memories of her friend’s dark face and lustrous eyes, her scolding and smiles, the warmth of her colors. Though Sioned had walled herself off to all other faradh’im and Tobin was the one who received messages on the sunlight, at this moment she was filled with recollections of that first joyous weaving of sunlight, lessons learned and practiced with Cami. How young they had been, how eager to discover their gifts, how excited by the wonders to be seen and felt on the light, how entranced by this incredible thing they could do. Sioned remembered what it had been like, and instinct opened her mind and heart to the sunlight around her.
She felt the colors of the music—sapphire and diamond and topaz and amethyst, all shot through with pulsing silvery shadows. Tilting her head back, she presented her face to the sun, eyes closed, watching her own colors form the distinctive pattern she used to weave the thread of light. Yet the lute colors were strangely insistent, swirling in momentary chaos before resolving into a coherent pattern—as if they belonged to a living being instead of wire and wood.
Help me!
Sioned could not help but respond to that cry. Master Sunrunner’s training took over and swiftly she meshed the hues together, perceiving the unique design of a clever, even devious mind, unfamiliar to her but carrying something oddly familiar in its undertones.
Goddess blessing, Sunrunner—I’ve been trying for days to find you. Your colors are well-known, but you haven’t wanted to be found—and I can well understand why. Please—don’t withdraw from me—please!
Sioned did not withdraw, but neither did she venture down the sunlight to discover who had called to her thus. Tense and wary, she examined the pattern and found little to reassure her. There were shadows here, and flickers of diamond-white that was the color of cunning.
I’ve only three rings—I’m no danger to you! Listen to me, please! I know things your prince will need if he’s to defeat Roelstra. Prince Jastri is angry and hot-headed, and instead of being chastened by his losses in battle he chafes
488 Melanie Rawn for vengeance. He commands over three hundred. He will not obey Roelstra if temptation enough is provided him. Give him a reason!
The deeper colors burned, outlined in Fire now, hatred clear. Sioned drew back, uncertain where that hate was directed.
Believe me! Would I dare this if I was not sincere? I want to help you!
“Sioned?”
Startled, she lost the pattern, and a faint cry echoed away into the sunlight. She opened her eyes and saw Ostvel, lute in one hand, staring at her.
“I was just thinking,” she managed in a fairly natural voice. “Forgive me, Ostvel, I didn’t mean to intrude on your music.”
“You didn’t. I’d finished.” He glanced away. “Sioned, I have to talk to you. Tobin heard from Kleve in Tiglath this morning.”
“What does he say?”
“No change. Minor skirmishes, but the siege continues. Walvis is worried and impatient, and that’s a dangerous combination. They need a battle to lift their spirits.” He smiled ruefully at the irony.
“Death to make them more hopeful of life.” She shook her head. “What are we doing to these children, Ostvel? Walvis should still be practicing with his sword, not using it in earnest. And Maarken—he should be learning the arts of a gentleman, not a warrior.”
“At least they’re doing something.” Ostvel shrugged irritably. “I feel like one of Roelstra’s daughters caged up in Castle Crag.”
Sioned gaped at him for a moment, then threw her arms around him, laughing. “Roelstra’s daughters! Ostvel, you’re brilliant!” Not giving him the chance to voice any of his bewilderment, she ran for the keep, shouting for Tobin.
Rohan knew very well that the option of playing idiot was no longer open to him. Between his first Rialla and this campaign to save his princedom had come six years of capable government and ample demonstration that he was no fool. Yet his experts at war were taken aback when, on the twentieth morning after his arrival, he ordered them to break camp and move back from the Faolain. He smiled slightly, glad that the notion of retreat was abhorrent to them, and waited for them to understand.
Chay’s captain, Gryden, saw it first. “Draw them into the Long Sand, your grace?”
“Exactly. I want the troops spread out as thinly as we dare, always keeping some in sight of the sea. You’ll all leave at different times and by different routes. Confusion is the idea here, with the hint that some of you are thinking about going home. Three days from now I want this area clean, and by this I mean that Roelstra’s troops will find nothing to live on here. Strip the trees and fields bare.” Shock widened their eyes, and Rohan shrugged. “Lord Baisal’s unhappiness would be the greater if the High Prince ended by ruling the Desert. We’ll lead them as far from his holding as we can. He’s had orders to stuff and garnish his own keep, so he’ll survive. Besides, it’s not him they want. It’s me. Any questions?”
If there were, the captains were wise enough not to voice them. When they had gone, Chay met Rohan’s gaze levelly. “Are you sure you trust this information? Sioned didn’t even tell Maarken who gave it to her.”
“I trust the information and Sioned implicitly. As to the identity—we all know that faradh’im are capable of using eyes and ears other than their own. 1 don’t really care how she gets the news. You’ll admit that the analysis of Jastri’s mood is probably accurate.”
“I still don’t like it.”
Davvi cleared his throat. “Roelstra has ruled the boy thus far. Can we count on his losing his hold?”
“What else can we do? Even if they can resist coming after us, then surely they won’t be able to ignore a riverbank left open to them.”
Green eyes, so like Sioned’s, danced with sudden anticipation. “We’ll see how far they’re willing to swallow the bait. After all, we can turn and attack them at any time. Chay’s made sure of that.”
In carefully planned bad order the various companies of archers, horse, and foot soldiers packed up and marched in what appeared to be any direction their captains felt like taking them. It took Roelstra several days to investigate this, and ten more to commit himself. Though he had not followed Chay’s enticing lead, he was now unable to resist Rohan’s, and it was the presence of the young prince that made the bait irresistible.
Thus things continued through high summer. Rohan ordered retreats of a few measures at a time, his forces spread in a dangerously thin line as they pulled back to the edge of the Long Sand, with some always in sight of the sea. The green hills of the Faolain Lowlands gave way to brown scrub, with golden dunes not far beyond. Yet Roelstra was cautious about extending his lines of supply and communications. Sioned reported to Maarken that Roelstra’s own men had stayed pretty much on the other side of the river, leaving Jastri’s men to explore. And Jastri was fit to be tied.
When Rohan received word that his troops were exactly where Chay wanted them, he hesitated. Desert-bred, his people knew how to live here. Jastri’s did not. Nightly he debated with Chay and Dawi the wisdom of an attack now or further waiting while the heat debilitated Jastri’s troops. He knew his own people were puzzled by his indecision. His actions at Stronghold were common knowledge by now, and they could not help but wonder why a prince who had calmly ordered his enemies butchered should now be reluctant to perform the same service for an even greater enemy.
Yet he waited. If he could save a few lives by waiting for summer to weaken the enemy, he was willing to wait. He did not fear the battle tor his own death; he feared the loss of lives held in his hands, lives for which he was responsible as their prince.
It was worst at night. During the day there were reports to be heard and ploys to be discussed and the searing heat to be lived through. But at night, after the maps had been rolled up and he lay in his cot, knowing the coolness ought to soothe him into badly needed sleep, he stayed awake. He dared not rise and pace the camp, not wishing to awaken Chay, Maarken, or Tilal, not wanting the soldiers to see his restlessness. So while his body lay quiet, his mind roamed endlessly.
Thoughts of Sioned were the most painful. She had given him cool lips and a serene smile at their farewell, but had he not held her night after night during her terrible dreaming? The woman who wept and clung to him was a stranger, as alien as the one who held out chafed, ringless hands to be kissed. Yet neither was as troubling as the Sunrunner who had conjured for him in a candleflame the night before he left Stronghold.
He flinched still when he remembered the image of herself and the boy-child, the sound of her voice, deep and redolent of Fire and shadows. “What Andrade wanted from me, lanthe will give her. But they’ll both lose, Rohan. This prince will be yours and mine. What do I care what you did with her or to her? You tell me there was rape. Didn’t she and Andrade do the same to us? Andrade used me, lanthe used you. But they will not use our son. Believe that, Rohan.”
Yes, he believed. He saw lanthe’s death in Sioned’s eyes, and believed. Sioned would wait out the child as if the pregnancy was her own, while Rohan destroyed the High Prince like any other barbarian.
His child. Sioned’s child. Goddess help the boy, what sort of world would he be-born into? One in which his father’s wife had killed his mother, and his father had killed his grandfather. Goddess help him.
The waiting ended eight days later for Rohan. Maarken, caught very suddenly on the sunlight, recovered from Sioned’s weaving and hurried to his father’s tent, brushing past the Desert standard on its golden staff, interrupting a conference between prince and athri.
“Jastri’s on the move south! Sixty horse, seventy archers, and two hundred foot! He’s broken with the High Prince and will attack tomorrow.”
Rohan grabbed for a map. “Now we find out how good you are at strategy, Chay. All captains here at once, Maarken. Get Tilal to help you, then make it known among the troops that tomorrow we fight at last.”
Prince Jastri’s three hundred and thirty arrived from the south, unhindered by the horse Chay directed there.
These merely shadowed the host, unseen. When Jastri turned east for the attack on what his scouts had reported, as Rohan’s weakest position, he found three hundred facing him with the prince himself at their head.
This time there was no Faolain River to wash away the blood. It soaked into the gritty sand for hours, then was left behind as Rohan’s forces pushed Jastri’s back measure after measure toward the Faolain. But there was no escape across the river, for between Jastri and the bridges were another hundred Desert soldiers, led by Lord Davvi.
The young prince fled south whence he had come. Rohan, riding with Tilal and Dawi at his side, topped a small rise in time to see Chay’s red-and-white standard flash into view from the trees. Jastri was caught in the middle, the reserve horse thundering at him from the south, Rohan and Davvi’s troops marching inexorably at him from the north and west.
Rohan sent a man forward with his battle flag to signal Jastri an offer of his life if he surrendered at once. But Sioned and her informant had been correct; the young man was hot-tempered and very proud. He led his remnant of an army against Rohan, bellowing out his fury.
Feeling Dawi’s gaze on him, he knew his brother-by-marriage was wondering if mercy was a part of his character. He hesitated, knowing that he could order Jastri sectioned off from his troops and spared. But as he glanced at the older man he saw Sioned’s green eyes, remembered her ravaged face. Rohan lifted his sword.
Jastri’s force broke utterly. Some soldiers laid down their arms; others fought to preserve their own lives without thought of winning a larger battle already lost. Rohan had to admire the courage of these latter people, as he admired Jastri’s, even though such bravery in these circumstances was folly. He tried to fight through to the young prince, deciding that he would offer honorable treatment as befitted princes. But he was too busy defending himself and Tilal from ambitious stripling lords who wanted his head. He never saw who killed Prince Jastri.
The banks of the Faolain had long since been secured by Dawi’s contingent, so when the battle cooled at last Rohan led the way back there, Pashta snorting at the stench of death as he picked his way delicately around the corpses. Rohan’s gaze fastened on the empty bridges. Roelstra was too smart to have committed more than a handful of his own troops; he had probably ordered them back across the Faolain this morning. Neither had he risked his own precious person. Pity. Rohan would have liked to end it all here.
Chay rode up with Jastri’s ripped and bloodied turquoise standard furled across his saddle. Rohan held out his hand and Chay dropped into his palm two rings, one gold and one silver, both set with deep garnets, the gem of Syrene princes.
“I had them take him from the field,” Chay murmured.
“Thank you.” Rohan turned, called a group of archers forward, and bid them ready their arrows.
“What are you doing?” Chay hissed as flint was struck and a small fire made in the sand. “We need those bridges!”
“If we cross them now, we’ll be slaughtered. Roelstra’s troops are fresh, and we’re exhausted. If we leave the bridges, he’ll either use them or burn them himself to keep us from crossing. I would rather they went up with our fire, not his. Do you agree?”
The question was for form’s sake only, but Chay’s reaction surprised him. A small, hard smile touched his sweat-streaked face as he said, “It’s something Zehava would have done, you know. The grand gesture—and the warning.”
Clenching his fist around the two rings, Rohan glanced over at the archers. But before he could give the order, a cry went up from across the river, soon taken up by his own troops. Fire had spouted up from the bridges in fountains of flame.
Maarken, cheeks white beneath the dirt and sweat of battle, stood at the water’s edge, his arms held up and his hands balled into trembling fists. He called down Fire and it fed on the wooden bridges, sent dancing sparks into the reflecting water. As the sun dipped lower and shadows touched the river, the Fire blazed higher and the Desert cheered its young Sunrunner lord.
Chay whispered his son’s name, anguished. Rohan sat his horse in silence, feeling the heat of battle drain out of him, making him aware of his sore shoulder and weary muscles. There were other small hurts, shallow slices of sword and knife, insignificant in themselves. But they merged into the whole, augmented by a real grief for another foolish young princeling, and as the Fire flared he winced.
Maarken finished his work and with visible effort climbed the rise to where his prince and his father waited. “I killed no one, my lord,” he told Chay.
Seeing that the father was incapable of speech, the prince said, “You have our gratitude, and you’ve gained us Roelstra’s fear. Look.” He pointed to the opposite shore, where atop the embankment the enemy had gathered to watch as Sunrunner’s Fire licked hungrily through the wood, glowing red-gold to create two blazing rivers of light across the cool one of dark water. He could easily pick out the figures he wished most to see: Roelstra in a deep violet robe, his head bare, black hair ruffling in the Fire-bora breeze, and Pandsala, her eyes dark hollows.
“Archer,” he said softly, and a girl ran up. He gave her the gold-and-garnet ring. “For the High Prince, with my compliments.”
She grinned up at him, and beneath the bruises and the dirt he recognized the sentry he had scold.ed here along this same riverbank. “I’ll plant it right at his feet, your grace!”
She very nearly did. Rohan admired the consummate skill that adjusted the arrow’s flight for the weight attached to it and calculated to a nicety the desired distance. Blue-and-white fletching came to rest ten paces away from Roelstra. Pandsala darted forward. Drawing the arrow from the ground, she handed her father the ring.
Rohan held up the other one. “As I presented Princess Sioned with a token of my gratitude before she became my princess, thus I now give recognition to my beloved nephew of Radzyn.” Maarken’s eyes went wide before he bent his head and extended his left hand. “No,” Rohan said clearly. “The other hand, and the middle finger. This is the first of yourfaradhi rings.”
Filthy and exhausted as he was, yet Maarken’s face was shining as he raised his eyes to Rohan, man’s pride competing with boy’s excitement. Radzyn troops cheered their lord, and Maarken suddenly turned scarlet.
Rohan smiled, but as he counted up the survivors he knew how much this victory had cost him. A quarter and more of their strength had been spent in taking what they had owned to begin with. In doing so they had halved Roelstra’s forces, but they were essentially back where they had started. Chay had specified two battles, and the first was over.
A sudden instinct made him tense as a strange, familiar sensation fluttered in his chest. He looked up, breath strangling in his throat. Soaring through the sky were dragons, more than a hundred of them. The sires and she-dragons Feylin had so carefully counted had produced hatchlings, none of which had been slaughtered by a hunt. No bigger than young children, they beat their wings powerfully, keeping up with their watchful elders on the journey from the caves around Skybowl and Feruche to the cool heights of the Catha Hills in the south.
Rohan felt his throat tighten, his eyes sting. His dragons, more than he had ever seen before in his life, free and proud and alive. His dragons.
As they flew from the Desert across the Faolain, the chant began again. But it was not his name that rumbled along the riverbank, growing louder, following the dragons over Roelstra’s camp as hundreds of wings cast shadows on the violet tents. Someone knowing the old tongue had renamed Rohan, given him the single powerful word that would be his for the rest of his life.
Azhei. Dragon Prince.