Dragon gold. It bought the labors of a hundred master crafters, and by the beginning of spring the Great Hall of Stronghold was splendid with the results. The artisans would have worked for nothing, of course; the honor of boasting that they had had a hand in the making was worth more than any payment. But Rohan paid. Gold was simple coin and cost him very little, though only a few privileged people knew that. He stood surveying his stage, knowing it was exactly that, and nodded his satisfaction.
Three hundred lamps shaded by sparkling Fironese crystal were set high along the walls where torches had once been. Tiles made in Kierst formed a pattern of blue and green on the floor. A new suite of fruitwood banqueting tables and chairs from Syr were laden with a fabulous dinner service of Gribain porcelain and utensils of Fessenden silver. Flowers were arranged in low vases of blue Ossetian glass; on either side of each was a wine pitcher made from the giant seashells found off the coast of Isel. Dorval’s silk provided the green napery folded into fanciful shapes atop the plates; pinewood boxes from Cunaxa held spices; fingerbowls of black deerhorn from Meadowlord and white elkhoof from Princemarch waited for noble hands that would be dried on small soft towels of blue Giladan wool. Beside each princely goblet was a delicate little cup, the only obvious use of the dragon gold that had bought all the rest.
The banners of Desert athr’im had been removed to the foyer, replaced by a single tapestry behind the high table: the new dragon symbol. Stylized into simple, elegant lines, the bold arch of outspread wings balanced the proud lift of the beast’s head. Gold on blue, the dragon was crowned with a thin circlet and held a small ring surmounted by a real emerald set into the cloth. Zehava would have approved the grand gesture—and the warning.
Rohan finished his inspection of the Great Hall and complimented his household staff, then walked between the empty tables to the side aisle where Maeta stood in full battle harness over a new blue silk tunic, her black eyes snapping with pride.
Rohan gave her a smile. “Stand easy. You’re making me nervous!”
She snorted. “You made me responsible for his safety, and here I stay.” She nodded at Sioned, who sat at the high table with Pol in her lap.
“Did you hear that old fool Chale say that Pol has Sioned’s eyes?”
“And your manners,” Sioned called out as the baby gave a loud burp. “Let’s get this started, Rohan. He’s quiet for now, but there’s no telling how long it will last. I don’t want him shrieking at the guests who’ve come to admire him.”
“And you,” he added. She wore a green gown dark as a mountain forest. The emeralds were around her throat and a thin silver circlet crossed her brow to hold back her loosened hair. He mounted the dais to stand beside and just behind her, fingers resting on the ornate carving of a dragon in flight that decorated the back of her chair, knowing very well what picture they would present. He wore a dark blue tunic and trousers, a topaz winking deep gold from a chain around his throat, a band of plain silver around his head. Pol’s clothes were green to match his mother’s gown, and the blanket around him was blue stitched with tiny golden dragons. A more perfect portrait of regal domesticity could not be imagined—precisely what Rohan had intended.
He signaled to Ostvel and the main doors were opened. The chaos outside in the foyer abruptly hushed as the chief steward of Stronghold announced Her Royal Highness the Princess Tobin and Lord Chaynal of Radzyn Keep. Tobin still favored her injured leg a little, but not in public. She and Chay, dressed in his red and white accented by rubies and diamonds, crossed the shining glazed tiles, made their bows, and joined Rohan and Sioned at the high table.
Next came Rohan’s vassals: Eltanin of Tiglath; Abidias of Tuath Castle, who guarded the far northern border of the Desert; old Hadaan of Remagev; and Baisal of Faolain Lowland. Less senior vassals followed, bowed, made new vows to the heir, and went to stand behind their chairs at various points throughout the great Hall—a strategic placement of approving voices worked out in advance by Rohan, Ostvel, and Sioned. Walvis was the last of the Desert highborns to enter, tall and handsome with his blue eyes sparkling above a neatly trimmed black beard. He took his place at the head of the knights’ table. Rohan caught his eye and smiled.
The princes were next, with the exception of Miyon of Cunaxa. Sixteen winters old and forbidden to make a move on his own, he had sent word that he was too ill to make the long journey from Castle Pine. It had been decided to take no offense, as his presence was unnecessary in any case. There were princes enough to make this convocation valid.
Lleyn of Dorval came in first, and winked at Rohan. He placed a lingering kiss on Sioned’s wrist and tickled Pol’s chin until the infant crowed with laughter, then went to his place near the high table. Pimantal of Fessenden entered to express his gratitude that his city of Einar was safe—for no one doubted that had the late High Prince succeeded in Syr, Fessenden would have been next on his list. Saumer of Isel, Roelstra’s erstwhile ally, came in wary and defiant, but polite. He was followed by his enemy, Volog of Kierst, looking smug as he greeted Sioned as her kinsman. Prince Ajit, who showed no ill effects from the long journey to Stronghold from Firon at his advanced age, said pretty things to Sioned and agreed with Chale that the baby had her eyes.
Clutha of Meadowlord was tight-lipped and contrite, having already given Rohan many speeches of apology for not keeping a closer watch on Lyell of Waes—whom he had in tow and who looked sick with apprehension. A poke in the ribs was sufficient to launch the young man into a babbled speech to which Rohan listened without any expression at all. He nodded briefly in dismissal, wanting Lyell to sweat a little longer.
Chale of Ossetia walked in, radiating innocence regarding Lyell’s work. Then came the younger princes who, like Miyon, had lost their sires in the Plague but, unlike him, controlled their own governments. Cabar of Gilad and Velden of Grib were much the same age, and much on their dignity at this first meeting of princes since they had gained their lands. Yet they were still boys enough to respond with blushes when Sioned bestowed on each her most dazzling smile.
At last Davvi came in, accompanied by his wife. Wisla was gaudy and overjeweled in Syrene turquoise and garnets, with a huge diamond nestled in her ample cleavage. She beamed at all as if she were princess of Stronghold as well as of Syr.
Then it was the turn of Roelstra’s daughters. There were twelve left now; five had died of the Plague, and the circumstances of lanthe’s death in the fire that had destroyed Feruche were still the subject of intense speculation. Pandsala led her sister and half-sisters up to the high table, and not one of them knew that the boy to whom they bowed was their sister lanthe’s son.
As they rose, Sioned spoke clearly into the quiet. “A moment, my ladies, if you would be so kind.”
They all froze, clumped together, eyes wide with fear or startlement or both. All except for Chiana and Pandsala. The former glared defiantly at Rohan; the latter stared at the floor.
“You have behaved with honor, and that is the truest mark of nobility—caring first for the peace and well-being of your land. By renouncing all claim for yourselves and your descendants to the properties, titles, and wealth to which you were bora, you have acted with great wisdom that all here will acknowledge.”
The sop to their lacerated pride, Rohan thought, composing himself to enjoy the rest of Sioned’s speech. She had insisted that she be the one to grant them this favor.
“Your lives are now your own,” she told them. “Should you wish to continue in quiet retirement at Castle Crag, you may do so. If there is a manor you would hke to hve in, that place and all its revenues will be yours for as long as you desire.”
“Your Highness!” gasped Naydra, the eldest of them.
“It was never our intention to leave you in nameless poverty,” Sioned assured her, and Rohan heard astonished whispers in the Hall. “And if there is a man you wish to wed, you will be dowered as befits your royal blood.”
A babble of voices greeted this announcement. Rohan let the noise play itself out, amused. He and Sioned had cast themselves in the role of generous prince, but there were reasons other than public show of magnanimity. Locking up Roelstra’s daughters was not in Rohan’s nature, not even for Pol’s sake, and making silent, captive martyrs of them would have been more dangerous than setting them free to breed children who might one day become a threat. Most would probably sink into obscurity, either living in pleasant manors under close if benevolent watch—he was no fool—or married to some minor lord or other. He looked them over as they struggled to comprehend this total reversal of their fortunes and the prospect of more freedom than their father had ever given them. Eight nonentities, he told himself, but four who would bear observation: Kiele with her new husband Lyell of Waes; Cipris, who at eighteen was sharp and beautiful as a new morning; and sly-eyed little Chiana and her full sister Moswen.
He doubted, however, that many men would be willing to marry a daughter of the late High Prince, despite the rich dowries he intended to provide. He could afford to be generous—especially as he had claimed for the Desert a nice chunk of Princemarch, including the ruins of Feruche and the dragon caves nearby. All thought his reasons were due to some ancient claim of his family. Rohan was not about to enlighten them.
The procession into the Great Hall was nearly over. The daughters took their places, Kiele fuming at the prospect of married sisters as she joined Lyell. Then absolute silence descended as Andrade and Urival walked in. They were both in silver and white, she with moon- stones binding her white-gold hair, he with the same gems in a belt around his waist. Knees and heads bent to them as they passed up the long aisle to the high table, and as Rohan bent his own head to his aunt he caught the glimmer of gleeful anticipation in her eyes. He had told her certain things about his plans for tonight that merited the malicious sparkle; he had not told her certain other things, which would probably give her apoplexy. Still—she loved a good show.
The feast began as soon as the wives, heirs, and important retainers of some of the princes present filed in and took their seats. The lowest tables were for the knights and squires, the latter freed from regular duties at table by Rohan’s own servants. Their group was presided over by Maarken and Tilal, two boys who differed from their companions in the self-assurance that came of having known battle. Andry and Sorin were there as well, along with OstveFs son Riyan. The trio would be allowed to stay up late so long as no infringement of decorum attracted parental attention.
As the first course was served, Maeta and a nurse came to take Pol up to bed. He was irritable after being subjected to inspection by so many strangers. Rohan sympathized; he had uncomfortable childhood memories of being similarly on display. But a prince was a prince. It was something Pol would get used to.
Walvis had charge of the knight’s table, his poise shaken only when he happened to glance over at a slim, redheaded girl with gray eyes whom it had pleased Rohan and Ostvel to place at the next table, directly in his line of sight. The two men exchanged a meaningful glance and a grin.
It had also pleased Rohan to order special cups made for the high table. Souvenirs of this night they were, magnificently wrought. A goblet of red Fironese crystal footed in silver served his sister and her lord; plain silver set with moonstones was shared by Andrade and Urival. Beside Ostvers plate was a golden cup studded by a single carnelian, and a pair of iridescent blue-green goblets for himself and Sioned had been etched with their new design and footed in dragon gold. He lifted his to her in silent tribute, and she smiled. But then she touched the small, empty golden cup between them, that matched those given to all the other princes. He knew her meaning; they were not Rohan and Sioned tonight, but the Dragon Prince and his Sunrunner princess.
With Lord Farid of Skybowl gone, Rohan’s athr’im had chosen Baisal as their spokesman. Obedient to a signal from Ostvel when the last dishes had been taken away, Baisal got to his feet and waited for quiet. His joyous grin over the prospect of his fine new stone keep had not faded since midwinter, and probably would not disappear until he was dead and burned—and perhaps not even then. Dawi had informed Rohan privately that if payment for the stone was even mentioned, he would cheerfully break his beloved sister’s beloved husband’s neck. Baisal had performed a great service to Syr as well as to the Desert, and Dawi intended to reward him.
Voice rumbling from deep in a chest the size of a winecask, Baisal called for silence and beamed at everyone. “Your highnesses, my lords and ladies, knights, squires, and all here assembled!” he thundered. “Raise your cups and drink with me to the glorious peace won at Dragonfield!”
“Dragonfield!” some yelled, and Rohan’s people turned it into “Dragon Prince!” He caught Sioned’s amused glance as he had the bad manners to drink to himself, and chuckled.
“Through the past days we have all had the honor of private consultation with Prince Rohan, and he has listened to our hopes and plans for the future. This is his custom,” he added blithely, and Rohan bit back a smile at this description of a technique used only once and that had made his vassals very nervous before his first Rialla as their prince. “We have also had the honor of speaking with Prince Lleyn, and this afternoon treaties were signed that define the borders of each princedom and holding for all eternity!” He raised his cup again, flushed with his own eloquence and Dawi’s best Syrene wine. “To the wisdom of Prince Rohan, and the peace that will live forever!”
As the toast was drunk, Sioned whispered. “We’d bet- ter shut him up before he starts leading everyone in singing that fool ballad.”
“Oh, I don’t know, I’m rather enjoying this,” he teased, and grinned as she made a discreet face at him. “Oh, very well. Two toasts are enough, I agree, for modesty’s sake.”
“Modest? You?”
Saumer of Isel solved the problem of silencing Baisal’s oratory. “Your pardon, my lord, but we have yet to understand the exact nature of this peace!”
“Watch out,” Chay whispered.
“He couldn’t have given me a better opening if I’d told him what to say,” Rohan answered softly, then stood up. “My thanks, Lord Baisal, for your tribute to the peace we all desire so much.” As Baisal sat down, smug with the compliment from his prince, Rohan addressed Saumer. “Your grace is wise to seek clarification. With the permission of this gathering, I will answer our cousin of IsePs doubts.”
“In your element, you damned show-off,” Tobin muttered at her brother’s elbow, and he kicked the leg of her chair.
He then spoke the name of each prince, who rose in his turn. Taking the small golden cup into his hand, he gestured for the princes to do likewise. When they had done so, he waited while servants poured thin, sweet Syrene wine. “All princes here present are confirmed in their possessions as stipulated in the treaties signed here today and witnessed by Lady Andrade.” Their graces drank to their own lands and titles. “All athr’im are also confirmed,” Rohan added.
Lyell of Waes stared at the high table with his eyes popping half out of his head. Clutha nudged him and he glanced up to find a stern gaze promising unthinkable consequences if he so much as set a foot wrong in future. Kiele sank back into her chair, faint with relief.
“There are several additions to the lists of athr’im and I am pleased to name them to you tonight.” He heard Sioned give a satisfied sigh. “We present to you first of all Lord Walvis of Remagev.”
It was some moments before the young man under- stood. Feylin leaned across her own table and hissed at him, “Stand up and bow to your prince who honors you so!” This brought a burst of laughter from the Hall and a flush to Walvis’ cheeks. He shot a furious glance at the girl and took the long walk up to the high table, head high and knees shaking only a little.
When he had made his bow, Rohan murmured for his ears alone, “Hadaan insisted we give you Remagev tonight in front of everyone. He has a condition, though— that you let him stay on at the keep to spoil your children and flirt with your wife.”
Walvis looked involuntarily over his shoulder, but not at Hadaan, who was grinning as proudly as if Walvis was his own son. Sioned quivered with silent laughter and whispered, “What did I tell you? A redhead!”
Crimson to his earlobes, Walvis stared at them and gulped. “I—my lord, my lady, it’s too great an honor.”
“Qh, nonsense,” Sioned told him. As Rohan slipped a ring onto his finger, she continued, “Topaz for a long and happy life, dear Walvis. We love you even more than you love us, and in further token of that love—“ She slowly drew a string of shimmering iridescence from a pocket of her green gown, a teasing smile on her face and mischief in her eyes. She was so lovely that Rohan wanted to kiss her in front of the whole Hall.
“My lady!” Walvis gasped as the rivulet of glowing silver-gray pearls trickled into his palm.
“Suitable for a wedding necklet, I’d say,” Tobin contributed, and Chay aided and abetted by drawling, “Don’t fuss the boy, Tobin. He’s got the idea.”
Walvis’ wide blue eyes went helplessly from his prince to his princess. Sioned winked at him. “One day, Walvis, you must tell me exactly what happened at Tiglath. You may bow to us now, my lord,” she prompted. He did so and started back to his seat in a daze. Ostvel rose and escorted him to a place made amid Rohan’s other vassals. He sat with the pearls in both hands, stunned.
Rohan cleared his throat. “We present to you next Lord Tilal of River Run. Prince Dawi, the honor of confirming your son in his holding is yours.”
This elevation was no surprise to any of those directly involved. Tilal left the squires’ table and went to where his parents sat with his older brother Kostas. A ring was given and Tilal bowed to his father before turning to bow again in the direction of the high table. Wisla, already dizzy with delight at five days of being addressed as her grace of Syr by other princes, burst into happy tears. Kostas, eighteen winters old and a prince now himself, grinned at his little brother and made room for him at the table. A servant brought a chair for the new Lord of River Run, who hardly dared breathe.
“Goddess, how I love being a prince!” Rohan whispered to Sioned, smiling down at her. She was alight with an even greater excitement now, for next would come the best of the night’s surprises, known only to the two of them.
“We present to you now,” he called out, “Lord Ostvel of Skybowl.”
He froze at the far end of the high table, unable to move or speak. Chay pushed him up with a hand beneath his elbow and he managed to put one foot in front of the other until he stood facing Rohan and Sioned, his back to the assembly. His face was ashen and so bewildered that Rohan worried about his ability to stay upright.
From far down the Great Hall a small voice cried out, “Is Papa in trouble, prince?”
__ “NotJn the least!” Rohan called back above the laughter. “You come up here too, Riyan.”
The boy raced up and clung to his father’s hand. Ostvel looked down at him, this irrepressible little boy with Camigwen’s wonderful dark eyes. When he faced Rohan again, his own eyes shone with tears.
“You trust me with the caves?” he murmured.
Sioned answered for them. “We trust you with our lives.”
“Forgiven?” he asked quietly.
Rohan did not understand the look that passed between them. Sioned bit her lip, then nodded solemnly. “If / am.”
Ostvel bowed his head. “She would have understood much sooner than I did, Sioned. If you’re determined to give this honor, do it for her, not me.”
“For you both,” she replied.
Rohan slipped onto Ostvel’s finger a ring set with a topaz so dark a golden-brown that it was nearly the color of Riyan’s eyes. To the child he said, “Your papa is a great lord now.”
Riyan looked excited, then suddenly forlorn. “Does that mean I have to be good all the time? No more playing dragons?”
“Oh, lots of playing dragons,” Rohan assured him. “You’ll have to teach Pol how, you know.” He reflected that there would be real dragons aplenty in the years ahead, seeking the caves around Skybowl now that they had forsaken Rivenrock for good. He envied Riyan the chance to see them so often.
The boy nodded his relief. “That’s all right, then. And I’ll be good, prince. Lpromise.”
Father and son went to the end of the high table, Riyan snuggling comfortably onto Ostvel’s lap. Rohan sought out the other fine young lords who would teach Pol: Maarken, Sorin, Andry, Tilal, who would be his friends and support in the future. Eltanin’s boy Tallain would be another, and the children Walvis would have with Feylin—who loved dragons. He smiled, wondering if Sioned’s other prediction would be right, too, and they would name a daughter after her.
Just as Rohan had arranged to have happen at this juncture, a loud, powerful voice boomed into the Great Hall. “Cousin,” called out Prince Volog of Kierst, “I ask the indulgence of this assembly on a private matter.”
“You have our attention, cousin,” Rohan agreed affably.
Volog grinned, unable to contain his glee. But his voice turned to silk and Saumer’s head jerked around, his eyes slits of suspicion. “My esteemed cousin of Isel and I have more in common than our island. We each have several charming daughters—and we each have an unmarried heir.”
“Yes? That’s intriguing,” Rohan commented blandly, and barely kept a straight face as Andrade gave a complex snort. “Go on, cousin.”
Volog turned to Saumer. “Need I say more?” he asked sweetly.
Saumer turned scarlet and tried not to choke. The audience tittered, appreciating that the price Saumer would pay for retaining his princedom after his support of Roelstra would be its eventual union with Kierst. His grace of Isel glared briefly at his grinning rival of Kierst, then swallowed and said, “How perceptive of you, my lord, and how elegant a suggestion it is.”
Rohan smiled with benign good humor. “We are all certain that by the next Rialla, your island will be united in true affection and harmony.” His eyes told Saumer it had better be. It was an excellent bargain, after all; they had managed to work together during and after the Plague, and with a little effort, the union of at least one pair of children would submerge the age-old enmity between the princedoms in the interests of family harmony. He felt a little guilty about dictating the lives of the young people involved. After all, he had not much liked the idea of being married off to some girl chosen by his parents. Looking down at the wife chosen for him by Andrade, he gave a rueful inner laugh. Leave it be, he decided; there was a good chance that duty would coincide with real affection, both heirs being pleasant young men and most of the daughters being as charming as Volog had asserted. The faradhi power ran in Kierstian royalty, too; Sioned’s grandmother was Volog’s grandmother as well, and it was possible that even if none of his offspring was fully gifted, a little of the magic would be there. The possibility of another prince with Sunrunner skills like Pol’s troubled Rohan a little. But that, too, was for the future, when they would puzzle out just what kind of new prince Andrade’s scheming had created.
Thought of his son brought Rohan back to the last and most serious shock of the evening. In pleasing himself through the elevations of Walvis, Ostvel, and Tilal, he had formed a future for Pol; in the maneuver with Saumer and Volog he had done the same while amusing his fellow princes mightily, if their dancing eyes were any indication. Now would come the final announcement. He glanced furtively at Andrade, who leaned back in her chair with every evidence of delight at the entertainment he had provided her. She read nothing in his eyes—but
Sioned did, and rose to stand beside him, taking his hand in hers. The breach of etiquette—a princess standing when only princes were allowed to do so—silenced the Hall.
“There is yet one land lacking a prince,” Rohan said softly, a deceptively casual observation that no one had dared make out loud in the last five days, at least not in his hearing. “No male heir of the late High Prince’s body lives. His daughters have renounced all claims for themselves and their children. We were the victor in the war waged by Roelstra in violation of the law, a victory gained with the invaluable assistance of their graces of Syr and Dorval.” He paused and swept his gaze around the room, as if noting all those who had failed to give active support. “And by the rights of this victory in war we lay claim to Princemarch, all its lands, holdings, titles, trade, and wealth. We make this claim not for ourselves,, but for our beloved son, Prince Pol. Will your graces freely accept him?”
They could not do otherwise, but Rohan was a little startled by the volume of their assent. They must fear him more than he’d realized, or perhaps they were beginning to believe what Chay and Tobin and Lleyn and Dawi had been telling them for five days: Rohan was their only hope.
“We thank your graces,” he said. Sioned’s fingers tensed in his own, for she knew what was coming. His next move was her suggestion; Chay, Tobin, and Ostvel had been horrified at first, but had reluctantly come to see the wisdom of it. The cowed vassals of Princemarch could not be governed the way Rohan governed the Desert—yet. Pol was only a baby. And there was no one else who would guard his second princedom so well.
“It will be many years before our son is old enough to assume the full responsibilities of his position. Thus we have decided to appoint a regent to govern Princemarch until he comes of age.”
Some of them looked at Chay; others at Maarken, young as he was. Rohan marveled that they could be so blind—even Andrade, who was sitting forward now so he could see her bright hair from the corner of his eye. Not even she looked to his real choice, who sat unnoticed, hands folded, waiting in silence.
“We name as Regent of Princemarch Her Royal Highness the Princess Pandsala, faradhi of three earned rings.”
Pandemonium.
She rose in the midst of it and walked gracefully to the high table. Her sisters were limp with shock—except for Kiele, who was white with fury, and Chiana, who jumped up and fled the Hall.
The commotion died down. Pandsala stood before Rohan, calm and slender in a plain brown silk dress. Sioned gave her a ring set with a Desert topaz and an amethyst taken from Roelstra’s sword; the ring Pol would wear one day as prince of both lands. Rohan took her clasped palms between his own, and Sioned placed her fingers atop theirs.
Pandsala looked up at them with a small, wry smile, murmuring, “I got Andrade out of Goddess Keep, spied on my father and warned you of his plans, misdirected his forces, and supported you on the starlight. I risked everything. And yet we all know you don’t really trust me.”
“We understand you, Pandsala,” Sioned replied just as softly, and Rohan thought, We understand your hatred for your father and sister. And you will never know about Pol. Never. “I’ve touched your colors. You are faradhi.”
“And that will do in place of trust?” Andrade hissed furiously.
“It will have to, won’t it, my Lady?” Pandsala met her gaze levelly. Then, loud enough to be heard through the Hall, “By my mother Princess Lallante’s Sunrunner blood, by my faradhi rings, by my faith and with my life, I pledge to guard and sustain Princemarch in safety and plenty until such time as Prince Pol claims it for his own.”
Andrade’s voice lashed out this time, cold and menacing as unsheathed steel. “By the rings I gave you, if you prove false to this trust I’ll see you shadow-lost by my own arts as Lady of Goddess Keep!”
“She is our choice, Lady Andrade,” Rohan warned.
For her ears alone he added, “Make your peace with that, if not with her.”
“Remember,” was her only reply, delivered to Pandsala in a threatening growl.
The princess went to the far end of the high table, next to the horrified Urival. A servant came with a chair and the last of the princely gold cups. Wine was poured again in dead silence.
It was Lleyn who raised his cup and, in a tone that fairly ordered the appropriate accolade, called out, “The Princess-Regent Pandsala!”
Voices rose in affirmation and wine was drunk. It was done.
Rohan took the small goblet from Sioned, who had drained the last of it after he had sipped first, and set it on the table. He noted that his hand shook just slightly, and became aware of a sudden exhaustion. He wanted nothing more than to order everyone out of his castle so he could go to his chambers with his wife and son and not emerge for days if he felt like it. But there remained one last thing, and he resisted the impulse to compel Andrade with a sharp command.
She finally rose and left the high table for the center of the Great Hall. Urival followed, then Rohan and Sioned, handfast. He sensed the strength of her Fire flow through him, lending endurance enough to make it through this ritual that would be performed by the woman who had put him here, and who now stared at him with cold, unforgiving eyes for what he had done.
Everyone was standing now, tense with expectation. The Lady raised her arms, sleeves falling back from rings and bracelets that sparked with silver and gold and gems. Urival was at her side, holding a plain golden bowl filled with water. Rohan and Sioned, facing her with their backs to the wall of windows, where the moonlight shone through pale and calm.
“Will you have them as High Prince and High Princess?” Andrade asked.
One by one, the princes and lords gave affirmation. Rohan heard reluctance in some voices and kept himself from a bitter shrug. Not even the sincere joy and even relief in most of the responses could soothe the ache as he met Andrade’s gaze. You wanted me here. They haven’t any choice, and perhaps it’s better so. There’s a son to come after me, prince and Sunrunner both, just as you planned. But though I understand, I will never forgive the pain. Never.
His fingers clenched convulsively around his wife’s hand and he glanced at her proud, quiet profile, saw the crescent scar of Fire on her cheek. She refused to cover it with makeup and wore it instead as a brand of honor— and penance. The mark would always be there, just as he would always move his right shoulder stiffly and Tobin would always have a slight limp—and Andrade would have to live with the fact of Pan’dsala as regent in Princemarch.
And Rohan would have to live with power.
Andrade took the bowl made of dragon gold and held it high, braced only by her fingertips—talons holding a huge jewel. The bowl trembled and glowed. A breeze through the open windows snuffed out most of the three hundred lamps and rippled the dragon tapestry behind the high table.
“By the Earth that cradles us and of which this bowl is made; by the Water herein that gives us life; by the Fire that lights our paths; by the Air that is our breath.” She held the bowl over the two bent heads. “In the name of all who live in these lands, I charge this man and this woman. Use your gifts for Tightness. Abide by the law. Strive for wisdom. Search your souls for truth. Humble yourselves in the moments of greatest glory. Make no battles for personal gain. Protect the lands and all who live on them. Cherish them as you do each other. Will you do these things?”
“We will,” they answered.
She held out the bowl to Rohan, who drank and passed it to Sioned. She sipped, keeping it in her hands,as Andrade spoke again.
“High Prince and High Princess, by the Goddess and the Father of Storms I proclaim them.”
The Lady held out her hands for the bowl, but violation of the ritual was something prince and princess had agreed on. Sioned placed the bowl on the blue and grata tiles. There was yet a little Water in it, a breath of Air swirling, a touch of Sunrunner’s Fire dancing along its rim. Rohan saw Andrade’s fleeting scowl before he turned to watch his princess extend her hands over the bowl. Sioned’s emerald, the only ring she would ever again wear, spat green flames in the dimness; the cascade of her fire-gold hair shone.
The bowl caught Fire.
Rohan spoke into the stillness. “This is the first of the new laws. No one shall kill a dragon. Not for sport, for cruelty, for loss of property, not for any reason shall anyone kill a dragon. Whosoever breaks this law shall forfeit half his wealth in retribution for his attack against us, for we shall consider the killing of a dragon as a sword raised against ourselves.”
He knew they were shocked and did not care. The wealth this law insured would be used on their behalf. If they never understood, so be it.
As he spoke, the vessel of dragon gold seethed. Flames rose in a powerful conjure and the air shimmered with vision. From the writhing orange and yellow and silver there coalesced a dragon nearly as tall as the rafters. Wings tipped in flame, talons trailing fire, eyes burning blue and green and blue again, the dragon’s head lashed up toward the ceiling. The fiery apparition beat incandescent wings and leaped up, surged through the air and vanished into the tapestry. It melted into the stylized crowned dragon holding afaradhi ring set with an emerald.
Rohan never knew who began the chant—one of his own people, perhaps. But the cavern-dark Great Hall shuddered to the sound of it.
Azhei. Dragon Prince.
Sioned eased herself back onto soft pillows, the laces of her bedgown undone, smiling as Rohan placed their son to her breast. He sat beside them and stroked the baby’s blond hair with one finger.
“Andrade won’t soon recover from the way you upset her ceremony,” he observed mildly.
“It was our ceremony, not hers. She didn’t win us a princedom or gain us a son.”
He shared her lingering resentment. “I don’t see that she has anything to be unhappy about. We’re making her new manner of prince, after all.”
“Rohan. . . .” She hesitated, and he encouraged her with a caress to her shoulder. “If I’d been the one to carry Pol and give birth to him, then in a way he would have been Andrade’s, too. But this way, he’s ours. Do you understand? The things we did—they were for us, not to make afaradhi prince for her.”
He nodded, because for Sioned it was true. But it was also true that they had done it for the future Pol would make, the new manner of prince he would become.
The things they had done. . . . Rohan had killed in battle, where every barbarian worthy of his sword was supposed to do his killing. Irony of ironies, he had even had the law on his side, law he had always wanted to use to create peace. As an excuse, it was convenient and tidy—but it did not justify the heated joy he’d taken in his bloodied sword, in burying his knife to the hilt in Roelstra’s throat.
He had raped, too—but all good savages did that. Trapped into it, drugged, seduced? Perhaps the first time, but not the second. He wanted to believe that lanthe had conceived Pol that first time, when he had thought she was Sioned. He wished he could believe that. But the fact that he did not was no excuse for allowing Sioned to claim the child for him. Circumstances had been against him—the war that dragged on, lanthe’s early delivery— but there was no excusing himself for not killing her when he’d had the chance. He should have, but he had not. Every barbarian prince desired a son who would rule after him.
He had used the power won by his sword to make himself High Prince and take what had been Roelstra’s, establish his own people in positions of power, impose his will—all of it legal, all of it agreed to by the other princes. Was his excuse that he was more fit to rule than Roelstra had been? What right had he to do what he’d done, what he’d allowed Sioned to do, what Chay and
Tobin and Ostvel and Walvis and all the rest had done on his behalf?
During his early youth he had struggled to learn all that was good in the world, all that he would use to make life better, more peaceful and civilized. He had wanted a life rich in dreams and the striving toward those dreams, not replete with death, deceit, and divisiveness. He had chosen to learn what he considered to be good, and had turned his face from the foul—not only in the world around him, but in his own soul. He had told himself that once he was prince, the things of the past that had made men war on each other would be swept away by his own dedication to honorable law.
But this year of war and anguish had taught him that the past lived inside him—all the impulses toward killing rage and rape that had governed his world for so long. They were all within him, all the acts that marked him as a barbarian, all the things said and done that made his soul writhe with shame. He knew what he was, and admitted it.
Rohan had looked into his own heart and seen Roeistra’s gleeful manipulation of one prince against another; he had seen lanthe’s scheming need for power; he had seen his father Zehava’s warrior instincts victorious, the urges that had slain dragons even when he had known full well their importance to the Desert.
But had Rohan truly seen the worst of himself? Probably not—for all those things were nothing compared to what power could make of him.
Only Sioned knew how deeply he despised the princes and lords who had so cravenly handed such power to him, the ones who had bowed to him the way they had bowed to Roelstra without ever seeing the truth of power itself. Only Lleyn, Dawi, Chay, those who knew Rohan as a man, understood a little of what being High Prince would mean to him. He would use it to create new laws that, please the Goddess, would feel like old laws by the time he died. Chay had told him that he was their only chance; Rohan knew that his was the only risk. It was his heart that power might twist, his dreams it might warp.
Yet he would not have given up knowledge of what he was. He had seen himself, recognized all the things he had feared as the enemies of the life he wanted to make— and he was no longer afraid of them. The only thing he feared was power. Taking it into his hands, making sure all accepted his authority, still he knew that it could become an enemy even more deadly than the barbarian within him. Yet for his son he would dare it, knowing that as both prince and Sunrunner, Pol’s struggle with power would be even more fearsome.
Rohan watched his wife and son for a long time in silence, wondering how the boy had so quickly won him. There had been bad times after his return to Stronghold, times when he had deliberately hurt Sioned, seeking to ease his own pain and guilt by causing deeper pain in her; times when she had lashed out at him for the same reason. But always there was the child, and in many ways it was through him that they had found their way back to each other. Pol had a way of fastening his wide blue-green eyes on his father that seemed to see into his soul. Rohan had not wanted to acknowledge this son who was not of Sioned’s blood or bearing, but Pol had been the one to claim him with those eyes. It was love for their child that linked Rohan and Sioned those first difficult days after his return—love that had reawakened the Fire between them.
Rohan stroked his son’s downy head, smiling as the child wriggled contentedly to Sioned’s breast. She might believe that what they had done had been for themselves, but Rohan knew it had been for Pol. He had forgotten for a long time something he had always known, something Roelstra’s taunts in the circle of starfire had caused to rise up within him once more. He supposed Sioned’s barrenness had made him forget on purpose; he had not dared think too much about children when there was so little hope. But, driven to his knees beneath that dome of silvery light, he had known again that all he dreamed and planned and did was for his child. Pol, innocent of the past, would have the best future he and Sioned could give. A life meant little if the world it had had the power to fashion was no better than the one it had been born into.
“I think our hatchling is finished for the moment Sioned murmured. “Would you like to hold him’7”
Rohan accepted Pol into his arms. Sleepy eyes blinked up at him and the child gave an inelegant burp. Rohan grinned. “He doesn’t seem too impressed by the honor.”
Sioned chuckled and tied up the laces of her bedgown. “You get quite enough bowing and praise from everyone else. The last place you’ll find such things is in your own family.”
“Would you believe me if I told you that’s a relief?”
“Of course—and I can hardly wait to see the back of all these highborns so we can be just ourselves again.”
“They’ll be gone soon. But it can’t be the way it was before, Sioned,” he warned gently.
“1 know. Too much has changed—especially us.” She smoothed the hair from his forehead, where the silver circlet had left marks. “I understand what’s happened, but understanding isn’t the same as forgiving.”
“I can’t say I care whether Andrade forgives us or not.”
“Nor I,” Sioned admitted. “I love you, and that’s stronger than any faradhi vow I ever made. It frightened me at first. It still does. But I think the one who’ll have to do the forgiving is Pol.”
They put the child to bed in the next room where his nurse waited in the soft lamplight. The carved wooden cradle had been a gift from Chay and Tobin at the New Year. Pale green silk was draped over half the cradle, gathered above the baby’s head in the jaws of a benevolent ruby-eyed dragon whose carved wings spread out on either side to guard him. Rohan and Sioned stayed long enough to make sure Pol was asleep, then returned to their own chamber.
She sat down on the bed to brush out her hair. Rohan lay at her side to watch. Candlelight was soft on the graceful lines of her shoulders and arms, shone golden in her red hair. He was beginning to get used to the single emerald on her hand. Though Andrade had offered to replace the other rings, Sioned had refused. This had been a major point of contention between them, signify- ing as it did that Sioned, while a Sunrunner, was no longer to be ruled by those at Goddess Keep.
“Lleyn told me something the other day,” Rohan mused. “Andrade may have thought she was mating the powers of a prince to those of a faradhi—but he said that what she really did was join those -powers in love. I think that makes us dangerous people, Sioned.”
“More dangerous than Roelstra and lanthe?”
“Much. They found their power in hate. What if they’d won? There’d be nothing left for them to take their vengeance on. But for us, love—there’s nothing we can’t do, and nothing Pol won’t be able to do. And that makes us very dangerous indeed.”
“No wonder Andrade’s not speaking to me,” she said lightly. Then, setting the brush aside, she smiled and went on, “Now that you mention it, there is someone who’d give full appreciation to being held by the High Prince—dangerous or not. And with the hatchling asleep, there’s a Fire to be rekindled here.”
“My lady, it never went out—and it never will.”