Just before spring gave way to summer, the dragons returned to the Desert.
Within Stronghold, Rohan and Tobin both looked up at the same time from the desk where she had been explaining a map. Brother and sister rose as one to gaze north from the windows, tense with anticipation. Sioned shared a wry smile with Chay, and they began tidying the spread of parchments on the desk. There would be no more work done that day.
Pol was out walking with Myrdal in the sandy plain below Stronghold, detailing his experiences as Prince Lleyn’s squire. The old woman nodded approval of his training; in her day she had been in command of the castle guard and schooled more than one boy in the knightly arts—including Prince Chadric, which in a way made it seem as if Myrdal had trained Pol, too. He was smiling at the realization when she suddenly stopped walking and planted her cane made of a dragon’s bone in the sand. Her face lifted to the sky.
“Listen,” she murmured. “Can you hear them? Listen to the wings, Pol!”
It had been said of his grandfather Zehava that he could glance at the formation of clouds and predict to the day when the dragons would return. Myrdal was rumored to be Zehava’s cousin; she certainly seemed to have the same talent. Pol closed his eyes and concentrated, hoping with all his heart that he had inherited the ability, too. Very faintly, on the edges of his mind, he sensed the wings, not hearing them so much as feeling them all along his nerves, a delicious tingling, a flash of excitement through his blood.
Maarken was in the courtyard with Sionell and Jah-navi, telling them a story while he whittled a flute for the little boy. He gave a sudden start and got to his feet, catching his breath. Jahnavi, named for Maarken’s long-dead twin brother, tugged at his sleeve in bewilderment, face creased with worry. Sionell started to speak, but then the cry came down from the Flametower: “Dragons!”
All of Stronghold abandoned tasks and duties, scurrying for vantage points at windows, atop the gatehouse, along the walls. By the time the dragons had become a faint smudge against the northern horizon, people were jostling for the best places to see them—all in a strange, awed silence. Rohan, Sioned, Tobin, and Chay met Fey-lin on the way up to the Flametower, their running footsteps the only sound. The lookout had already opened the stone door of a huge circular room at the tower’s pinnacle, where a fire burned year-round as a beacon light in the Desert and to symbolize Rohan’s rule. Not even the open windows all the way around the room could cool the heat given off by the fire blazing in the chamber’s center. Sweat immediately beaded foreheads and trickled between shoulder blades as the five clustered around the windows.
In the silence could be heard the rush of wings. The hazy blot grew larger, separated into individual dragons. Sunlight gleamed off dull hides: brown, russet, ash gray, green-bronze, dark gold, blue-black. And suddenly there came the music of dragon voices. A tremor ran through all who heard the arrogant bellows of ownership, of triumph, of warning. Wings stroked powerfully, fore- and hind-legs tucked in with shining talons barely visible. As they reached the hot thermals they soared higher, gliding easily with wings outspread, veering east to trumpet their mastery over the Long Sand before turning once more for the hills.
A huge sire, gold-speckled brown with black undersides to his wings, snapped at a smaller male of silvery hide and aggressive tendencies who flew too close. They roared out their rivalry loudly enough to shake the stones of Stronghold and swept insolently close to the keep, thundering their contempt of the puny beings below who watched them in wondering silence.
“Father of Storms!” Feylin blurted. “I’m forgetting to count them! Quick, somebody—pen and parchment!”
“In your hands,” Chay told her. She looked down with a start of surprise, then thrust the implements at him along with a bottle of ink from her tunic pocket.
“Take notes for me!” She leaned precariously out a window and Rohan grabbed her by the waist to steady her as she recited, “Group of eight youngsters, all brown—five females, varying gray—fourteen, no sixteen more females, bronze and black—“ She paused for breath, counting frantically. “Thirty-six immatures, brown sire, black sire, two grays, three golds—Goddess, look at that flight of reds! Forty of them!”
“Forty-two,” Tobin corrected from the next window as the dragons flew past.
Chay could hardly write fast enough. He sprawled on the floor and scribbled with all his might as the two women called out numbers and colors. Rohan hung onto Feylin as she climbed up on the sill.
“And bringing up the rear—twenty-eight immature dragons, gray and greenish and bronze!” Her balance chose that moment to desert her. Rohan yanked her back into the room and they toppled onto the floor near Chay, spilling the ink in a black splash.
Sioned stood over them, laughing. “Feylin, my dear, you know how deeply I value your friendship, but if you don’t unhand my husband this instant—!”
Rohan helped Feylin up and winked at her. “She wouldn’t mind so much if I didn’t have a preference for redheads. I thought you were going to take off out the window and go flying with them!”
“I came near to it,” she admitted, rubbing one hip. “Did you get it all down, my lord?” she asked Chay.
He looked up from the floor. ‘ ‘If any of you can make sense of the scrawl, we’re all right, But I wrote it and / can’t even read it!”
“I was listening,” Sioned informed him.
“You and your faradhi memory tricks—why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“You mean you didn’t see her over there, still as a stone?” Tobin asked. “Although I’m sure the blank stare is something Andrade teaches along with the tricks them- selves, just for show. Feylin, you and Sioned go downstairs with Chay and make a clean copy while she still remembers everything.”
When they were gone, she helped Rohan mop up the spilled ink. “Look at this. It’s soaked right into the stone!”
“Next time let’s do the count from the battlements.” He wiped sweat from his forehead, leaving a streak of black behind.
Tobin scrubbed it away. “I agree. It’s a furnace in here.
That was probably the most chaos I’ve seen since my sons grew up. But the dragons are beautiful, aren’t they?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve finally come round to my way of thinking about them!”
“I don’t appreciate losing our stock to them, no. But they’re wonderful creatures. Besides, you always pay for what they gobble down.”
“I pay inflated prices,” he accused, following her out of the room. The heavy door swung shut behind them with a hollow thud that echoed down the empty stairwell. “That wounds me deeply, little brother.” “I don’t hear you denying it.”
“Well, if you’re foolish enough to pay for what the dragons steal. . . .” She grinned at him. “Besides, thanks to the dragons themselves, you can afford it. How much gold did you get out of their caves last year?”
They turned a corner and nearly bumped into Pol. His face seemed unable to decide whether excitement, shock, or bewilderment was the expression it wished to convey; his eyes said one thing, his brows another, and his slack jaw a third.
Rohan threw his sister a disgusted glance, and she had the grace to blush as he told Pol, “I hope you won’t follow her example by chattering that piece of information all over the keep.” Pol shook his head, wide-eyed. “And remember to make more noise when climbing stairs,” Rohan advised. “Unless you enjoy embarrassing people who get caught saying things they shouldn’t. Now, what have you run up here to tell me?”
“What? Oh—Myrdal and Maeta want to know if we’ll set out for Skybowl tonight or wait for tomorrow.”
“Hmm. Let’s go tonight. The moons will be up, and I fancy a ride while it’s cool. When we get to Skybowl, I’ll answer all the questions you’re having such trouble swallowing.”
“Yes, Father. I’m sorry, Aunt Tobin.”
“It was my fault, Pol.” As he ran back down the stairs a good deal more noisily than he’d come up them, she turned to Rohan. “I didn’t mean to—“
“I know you didn’t. But I’d hoped to wait before telling him.”
“I really am sorry, Rohan. It was careless of me.”
“The day we have to watch everything we say at Stronghold is the day I trade this pile of rock for a tent with the Isulk’im and let somebody else play High Prince for a while.” He put an arm around her waist. “Come. They’ll have finished the tally by now. I only hope Feylin is pleased with the total—she has this way of looking at me as if it’s my fault there are fewer dragons than she’d planned on!”
Sionell waylaid Pol on his errand, trying to capture his attention by running beside him and calling his name. He ignored her. Frustrated, she grabbed at his sleeve. “Slow down! Where are you going so fast?”
“I’m on my father’s business. Let go.” He tugged his arm from her grasp.
“Can I come with you?”
“No.”
She followed anyway, listening from the doorway as Pol informed Myrdal an.d her daughter Maeta that they would depart for Skybowl tonight.
“Good,” Maeta said. “It’s a long ride—but with Ost-vel’s kitchen and wine cellar at the end of it!”
“If there was a horse in the stables that wouldn’t shake my old bones loose, I’d come with you,” Myrdal sighed. “Chaynal, bless the boy, never bred a slow animal in his life.”
“You could ride my pony,” Sionell offered shyly. “We could use lots of saddle blankets.”
“Thank you, child, but a horse made of feathers wouldn’t do for me at my age.” Myrdal smiled.
“I’ll give the necessary orders, my lord,” Maeta said to Pol. “If you’d be so kind as to tell your father—“
“Of course.” He started back across the courtyard, annoyed when Sionell skipped along beside him.
“I’m going, too,” she announced. “On my new pony.”
“That’s nice,” he muttered.
“Is Myrdal really your kinswoman? I heard somebody say she’s your grandfather’s cousin. Is she?”
“You shouldn’t listen to other people’s conversations. It’s rude.” He conveniently forgot that he had done the same thing himself that day, though unintentionally.
“I can’t help it if people talk and maybe say things they shouldn’t. Mama says the Goddess gave us eyes to see with and ears to hear with—“
“And a mouth to repeat everything you hear?”
“You’re the one who’s rude!” Sionell darted ahead of him and made an absurd attempt to block his way, small feet planted on the cobbles. “Apologize.”
“What for?”
“Your manners! Say you’re sorry!”
“No!” He knew he was being childish, but something about this little brat irked him beyond all patience. The thought of her tagging along after him all over Skybowl was intolerable.
“Say it!”
“Don’t use that tone of voice to me,” he warned.
“Why not? Because you’re a prince? Well, I’m not just anybody—I’m Lady Sionell of Remagev, and you’re nothing but a rude boy!”
He drew himself up, goaded beyond control. “You’re ruder than I am, if I was rude, which I wasn’t! And / happen to be the heir of the High Prince!”
Another voice spoke behind him, sharp with disapproval. “You are an insolent child who ought to be spanked for that statement. Apologize at once,” Sioned snapped.
Pol’s mouth set in mutinous lines and he shook his head.
His mother’s green eyes narrowed for a moment, and then she looked at Sionell. “What’s this all about?”
“Nothing, your grace,” the girl whispered. “I’m sorry, my lord prince.” Pol blinked, more astounded by this sudden reversal than by her use of his title. But if she could be generous enough not to tell his mother how badly he’d behaved, and apologize into the bargain, he could do no less.
“I’m sorry, too—my lady,” he managed in a low voice.
Sionell ‘s blue eyes rounded with wonder as he gave her the honorific—the first time someone of highborn rank had seriously addressed her by her title.
Sioned eyed them both. “I suppose I’m not going to be told exactly why we’re in need of all the apologies. Sionell, would you do me a favor, please? Tell Maeta that if Selca’s hoof is healed, I’d like to ride her tonight.”
“Yes, my lady.” She ran off.
Pol looked up at his mother and tensed for a scold. When it came, it was both less than he deserved and worse than he expected.
“A prince who reminds people of his rank isn’t much of a prince,” she said. And that was all.
He gulped, nodded, and followed her silently back into the keep.
* * *
By late afternoon of the next day they were at Skybowl. The keep itself was invisible from the dunes below, and the only signs of habitation were the small terraced fields of waxy-leaved plants that grew best when exposed to the incredible heat. Scrub and tufts of goat-tail cactus dotted the slopes of the ancient crater, but the greater part of the mountainside was bare and gray.
As the trail crested before winding down into the cone, however, visitors discovered the reason for Skybowl’s name. A perfectly round, intensely blue lake nestled in the hollow of the volcano. No one knew how deep it was. On the far shore was the keep, which could have fit into Stronghold’s courtyard. Built of stone taken from nearby cliffs, chips of shining black glass caught sparks off the sun where they were embedded in pale gray rock. A pennant bearing a brown stripe on a blue field stirred lazily atop the castle’s single tower, and those who looked closely enough saw the gleam of gold atop the standard, a golden dragon in flight.
The party from Stronghold rode over the lip of the crater and a horn sounded from within the keep. A few moments later the pennant came down, to rise again with the blue-and-gold Desert banner preceding it, signifying that the prince was now in residence. Rohan slowed pace to give Ostvel time to come out and greet them, using the moments to breathe deeply of the fresh, cool air. The lake beckoned invitingly; he gestured to it and asked his wife, “Join me?”
“Not a chance! Ostvel always claims Sunrunners are frightened of drowning in a bathtub.”
“Do you think it’ll take a royal command to get him to Waes this year?”
Sioned waved as their old friend and former steward emerged on horseback from the gates. “I’ll work on persuading him,” she promised. “Riyan would be heartbroken if his father’s not there to see him knighted. Besides, Ostvel hasn’t left the Desert in years. When we made him Lord of Skybowl, it wasn’t to see him immure himself in the keep.”
Rohan lifted one hand in salute as Ostvel cantered toward them. “He still grieves, Sioned. After so many years, he still misses her.”
“As if he’d lost her only yesterday,” Camigwen, Ost-vel’s wife, mother of his only child, had been a Sunrun-ner and Sioned’s dearest friend. Her death of Plague was still an open wound; Ostvel never made any show of his grief, and lived quite contentedly here at Skybowl, but he left his lonely keep only with reluctance. Sioned glanced up as she felt Rohan’s fingers brush her arm.
“Smile for me, love,” he murmured. She did so, seeing her sorrow reflected in his eyes—and her terror that someday one of them might have to bear the same kind of loss.
Ostvel reined in his horse and bowed deeply from his saddle. “Goddess blessing to you, my prince, my dearest lady,” he greeted them. “And welcome to Skybowl. But I’m afraid I don’t recognize several of your escort.”
Sioned chuckled as his gaze went first to Pol, then to Sionell. “Surely you know Lady Feylin and Lord Maar-ken,” she said, aiding and abetting.
“Of course,” he responded with a bow in their direction. “But I see two strangers here. Oh, certain things about them are familiar, perhaps, but—“
“Oh, Lord Ostvel!” Sionell scolded. “You know it’s me!”
The athri of Skybowl clapped a hand to his forehead, playing the scene for all it was worth. “The eyes, the voice, the hair—“ He guided his horse around to make a full inspection and gave her an elegant bow. “My eyes do not deceive me! It is indeed the fair Lady Sionell!”
The little girl laughed merrily. Ostvel then straightened up, squinting at Pol. “Can it be—? Do I behold—‘”
Sioned moved her mount over so she could bat playfully at his head. “Oh, do stop being so silly.”
“Gently spoken as ever, “ he observed, “and just as accurate in her aim.” He rubbed ruefully at his ear. “It’s nice to know some things never change!” He bowed to Pol. “My prince, welcome to Skybowl.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Pol said with proper dignity.
“Food and drink is. ready for you—and baths for the faradh’im. I assume you’ll perform your usual ablutions in the lake, Rohan?”
The High Prince returned from his swim to find his wife still soaking in a cool tub. He had never considered it strength of character to resist such temptation as the sight of Sioned wearing only water and her own long, unbound hair. So he climbed in with her, giving the innocent excuse that he would help her wash. The tub was not conducive to dalliance without some interesting gymnastics and a great deal of laughter, but they managed.
Afterward he lazed back in her arms, fingers idly chasing floating strands of red-gold hair. She chuckled softly and he asked, “Mmm?”
“I was just thinking that it is possible to drown in a tub, even if you’re not a Sunrunner.”
“Don’t be absurd; We splashed most of the water onto the floor.”
“Ostvel knows us too well. We got the suite with the best bathroom drain.” She pointed to the little grill set into the floor tiles.
They found further evidence of their host’s thoughtful-ness in the main chamber which connected to the bathroom through a dressing area. Silk robes had been laid out on the bed, and two comfortable chairs faced each other across a table laden with dinner.
“Ostvel keeps the best cook in either of my princedoms, damn him,” Rohan said after finishing off a miraculous concoction of hot pastry wrapped around chilled fruit. He stretched, rubbed his silk-clad shoulders, and sighed. “You don’t suppose I could connive him into a trade, do you?”
Sioned poured out the last of the wine and shook her head. “We might send our cooks up here for a while though, to learn a few things.”
“I doubt it. His resident magician trained in Waes, and they don’t give up their secrets. Not even to High Princes. And speaking of secrets, Tobin let it slip yesterday about the dragon gold where Pol heard her.”
“He had to know sometime,” she said philosophically. “I assume you’re going to make the revelation properly dramatic?”
“Sneak him into a darkened cave and suddenly light a torch, you mean?” He laughed. “It’s an idea. Sort of like the way we found out, remember? I’ll never forget the shine of the sand and digging through it with your Fire over my shoulder.”
“Actually, you might ask Pol to conjure the Fire for you. I’ve tested him, Rohan. He’s an instinctive talent. It’s uncanny.”
“If Andrade thinks she had her hands full with Andry, she’s going to get a shock when it comes Pol’s turn at Goddess Keep. I’ve been thinking about that, by the way. If he’s knighted at eighteen, it will be a Rialla year and we can give him a send-off to Andrade from Waes itself— making it very obvious that he’s going to be a fully trained faradhi as well as a prince.”
“Not exactly subtle,” she remarked.
“And if we tried to do it less than publicly, the other princes would grow even more suspicious than they are right now.”
“It was always comes back to that, doesn’t it?” she mused, propping her elbows on the table. “Pol makes them very nervous, with the potential for all that power. But he’ll have Maarken to show him how it’s done, and there couldn’t be a better example—not for him or for the other princes.”
“Tobin and Chay are so proud of him they’re ready to burst,” Rohan agreed. “What a family my sister produced! Two faradh’im and another son who bids fair to becoming an even finer knight than his father. Volog’s last letter almost glowed. He’s going to knight Sorin this year, did I tell you? Goddess, they’re all growing up so fast.”
“I wish we didn’t have to send Pol back to Dorval. Laugh at me if you like, but I hate missing any part of his life.”
“I’m not laughing, Sioned. But it’s best for him to be at Graypearl. He’s learning so much from Lleyn and Chadric. And it’s safer there.”
“The Merida—“
“—threatened once in the years he’s been there. And it happened outside the palace. We can’t keep him wrapped in silk, and he’d never stand for it if we tried. You wouldn’t want a son who did.”
She sighed. “I know, I know. But I can’t help worrying.”
Rohan got to his feet and stretched again. “We should be up early tomorrow,” he reminded her. “We’ll go out and have a look at the dragons, then I’ll take Pol on a tour of the caves.”
“Do you want me to try and touch a dragon tomorrow? “ She joined him in bed after draping her robe over a chair.
Rohan gathered her close beneath the light sheet, stroking her damp hair. “It might be interesting. They’re all thinking about nothing other than mating, and who knows what you might sense—and want to act on?”
“Don’t you just wish!” she retorted, biting his shoulder.
“Stop that. Or at least do it as if you mean it.”
She raised her head and looked into bright blue eyes that danced with humor and desire. “If this is middle age, then it’s a wonder we both survived our youth!”
* * *
Chay leaned back in bed, a thoughtful frown furrowing his brow. “Tobin. ...”
She stopped brushing her long black hair. “You honor my ears with speech, O light of my eyes?”
“Don’t be impudent, woman, or I’ll beat you senseless.”
“You and what army?”
“Well. ...” He cleared his throat. “Tobin, that boy is too damned perfect.”
“What boy? Pol? What’s wrong with him?”
“Just that. Nothing’s wrong with him except that there’s nothing wrong with him. He adores his mother, worships his father, is reasonably obedient, doesn’t pick his nose in public, washes behind his ears, and is entirely too smart for his age.”
“And this is cause for complaint?”
“It’s unnatural. No, it is,” he insisted when she laughed. “He doesn’t get in trouble. Our boys were never so well-behaved.”
“Or so clean,” she added, grinning.
“I want to know what’s wrong with him.”
“Nothing, according to you.”
“That’s the whole point. Consider Rohan at his age.”
“My darling brother was perfect, too. Just ask him.”
“He was the slyest, wickedest, most impossible brat I ever met. He just never got caught at it.”
“Well, perhaps Pol’s like him—too clever to get caught.”
“I don’t think so. Not that he’s not clever. I mean. But I don’t think he has to use it to keep himself out of mischief. I wish he deserved a few swats now and then. It’s good for the character.”
“Are you aware that this is one of the most ridiculous conversations we’ve ever had?” She slid into bed beside him.
“No, it’s not. The prize for that goes to anything we said to each other before the first time I kissed you. Thousands of words, all of them a complete waste of time.”
“So is this discussion.” She made several unsubtle movements designed to distract him.
“Stop that.”
“Two more ridiculous words.” She gave him a look of vast patience. “Chay, Pol is a polite, respectful, mannerly, conscientious fourteen-year-old boy.” Snuggling back into his embrace, she added, “But don’t worry. I’m sure he’ll grow out of it soon.”
* * *
Maarken had been bred to the Desert through at least fourteen generations on both sides of his family. He loved the wildness of the land, knew its moods, respected its dangers. He asked nothing more of a day than to spend it watching the delicate sunrise colors flare into dazzling noon, then slowly mellow to the rose and purple shadows of dusk that gave way to sparkling black skies and silvered dunes. He relished the heat that seeped into his bones, the soft whispers of sand beneath his feet, the shimmer-visions that danced enticingly just out of reach. In this place where others could not even survive, his people had thrived; he had his share of pride in the accomplishment, his share of love for the harsh land that, testing them, had not found them wanting.
But though he intended to spend his life in the Desert, at present it was the last place he wanted to be. A ride of thirty measures, a long walk, and hours of waiting had not sweetened his mood. He crouched in a sandy hollow watching dragons, and chafed at the slow passage of the sun across the sky.
Hollis had promised to contact him sometime today. Her duties at Goddess Keep varied, and it was uncertain when she could be alone. His mind understood; but his heart, like that of any other ardent lover, resented anything that diverted her from thoughts of him and him alone. His sense of humor provided a balance between the two extremes, for he knew she could scarcely go through her day languishing over him, nor would he want her to. He also knew she would have laughed herself breathless at the very thought. Still, he told himself, she was supposed to be in love with him. Surely she could make time to reach across the sunlight to him, if only for a little while.
Boredom did not help his temper, either. He had chosen to join the observation party for something to do that would keep him out in the sun and reasonably occupied, but thus far absolutely nothing had happened. The she-dragons, back from an early morning foray to feed, lolled in the sand, baking their egg-swollen hides. The imma- ture dragons had been chased off for the duration, though Maarken knew they had probably found some vantage point, just as the humans had. Of the sires there was no sign at all, although the occasional distant roar from the canyons made everyone start in surprise. But the females paid not the slightest attention to the bellowings of their mates; they only yawned.
Maarken glanced at Pol, who sat beside him in the sand. The boy’s dusky yellow-brown cloak was pulled around him, the hood up to protect his blond head from the heat. He looked like a miniature tent. Maarken grinned, seeing the rest of the group spread out along the dunes like a little village of Isulki tents, all in lightweight cloaks that blended with Desert colors. Dragons were keenly sensitive to color, as Feylin had discovered some years ago.
She had conducted an experiment involving some humiliated sheep dyed garish shades of blue, orange, scarlet, and purple, which the dragons scrupulously avoided in favor of their unaltered tan and white brethren. Maarken remembered the trouble Feylin had taken to make sure no scent of dye clung to the wool, and especially he recalled the chaos they’d watched from a hilltop as the poor undyed, unsuspecting sheep had tried to escape thirty-five gleeful young dragons presented with a free meal.
He had to chuckle under his breath as memory stirred of the subsequent experiment. Feylin had used more subtle shades this time, browns and grays that were nearly the usual colors of sheep. The dragons had not been so choosy that time, and it had been concluded that protective coloration would only work if the most lurid hues were used. They had all had a good long laugh at the idea of convincing shepherds to watch over flocks of purple sheep.
Still, the tests had shown that dragons were sensitive to color. Maarken adjusted the hood of his own taze-brown cloak and recalled the shock of bumping into a dragon on the sunlight. He had talked it over with Sioned at great length, agreeing with her that it might just be possible to pattern and understand dragon colors. But the problems presented were serious ones.
Those not faradhi never understood the limitations of the gifts. A steady source of light was essential. A cloud over the sun or moons, a venture timed too close to sunset or moonset—and shadows drowned all color. Shadow-lost was the most hideous death a Sunrunner could face. Spark of mind gone with the lost color-pattern of thought and personality, the body lived for only a little while longer in consciousless, empty void.
Maarken fixed his gaze on the great lolling dragons half a measure from where he sat. What if a faradhi in contact with a dragon was pulled into a cave or the shadow of a mountain? What if the dragon flew into fog, or from day into night? No one but Sunrunners comprehended the vulnerability of their kind to darkness. He wondered if Rohan had any idea of the real dangers—or if Sioned would tell him.
The pair were seated together a little beyond Pol, two matching triangular tents of dull gold silk. They would have been anonymous but for the small dragon cypher stitched at the right shoulder of each garment, the same symbol that appeared on Pol’s cloak. Other princes had adopted Rohan’s innovation of a device in addition to colors, and some were quite beautiful—Ossetia’s golden wheat-sheaf on dark green, Fessenden’s silver fleece on sea-green. The athr’im were clamoring for similar privileges now, and the Rialla this year would decide if such were to be granted. Thus far only one of the lords had been given the right to use a cypher with his colors. Maarken smiled and glanced to his left, where his parents sat side-by-side, their tan cloaks distinguished by the symbol Rohan had given them: on a red field bound in blue, a sword was stitched in silver thread, signifying the role of Radzyn’s lord in defending the Desert. On Chay’s pennant and battle standard the whole was bordered in white, and looked magnificent. Maarken dreamed a little of the time when he would give Hollis a cloak carrying that symbol. . . .
His mother looked around at him then, and Maarken tensed slightly as if suspecting she had read his thought. But she only smiled and rolled her eyes expressively, and he grinned back. She had the least patience for sitting still of anyone he had ever known. She hated lack of physical activity, and even when discussing a problem she tended to pace, drum her fingers, tap her feet, shift position constantly. Her activist approach to everything was occasionally her husband’s despair; she believed that there was nothing in her world that could not be helped, solved, or conquered if only one got up and did something about it. Rohan was her opposite in that way, as in most others; he believed in allowing things to develop, in not forcing events. In the very personal matter of Hollis, Maarken knew he could count on his uncle’s quiet support, and that was a help. But if Tobin decided she approved of Hollis, she would do everything in her considerable powers to facilitate the match. Maarken did not like to think what she was capable of if she did not approve of his Choice.
It amused him that his quiet, serene Hollis was so different from his mother. She would never fly into a tearing rage, give imperious commands, or escalate a difference of opinion into a shouting match. Tobin did all these things with as much relish as she lived the rest of her life. Maarken adored his mother—but he did not want to marry a copy of her.
Without warning a dragonsire trumpeted a challenge across the dunes. Maarken nearly jumped out of his skin. The deep, hoarse cry echoed all the way out to the Long Sand. Feylin stirred from her perch on the highest dune and slid down to where Sioned and Rohan sat. Maarken strained to hear their whispers, and saw his uncle and aunt straighten expectantly. A ripple of alertness went through the she-dragons as a shadow appeared across the sand, then another, then another. The sires were ready at last.
The females shifted, moved from the low hills that bordered the plain and grouped together in bunches of five to ten. Feylin moved over to Pol and began a low-voiced explanation of the hierarchy.
“The youngest are to either side of the senior females. You can’t really tell them apart except for their wings. See the scars on the older ones? Mating gets pretty rough. But there’s another way to tell the younger from the elder. The ones who’ve been through this before are pretending to be bored.” She chuckled softly as Pol blinked at her.
“The sires will have to impress them. The youngsters will be the first to choose their mates, but the others will wait a while. They’ve seen it all before, and, like most ladies, they want to be wooed.”
Maarken whispered playfully, “Bear that in mind, Pol.”
“I’ll be marrying a girl someday, not a dragon,” he scoffed.
“My husband says there’s no discernible difference!” Feylin laughed softly. “Watch the sires now. They’re just about ready.”
The three dragons made a delicate landing in the sand and were joined by a fourth and a fifth. Two were golden with black underwings. The third was russet-colored, the other two black and brown. Maarken had seen their dances before, but never so many dragons at once. He glanced up and saw the remaining eight sires hovering watchfully on thermals high above, waiting for the first dragons to exhaust themselves; when one tired, a fresher male circling overhead would land and take his place.
The five took up position before their audience, rearing back as one with wings spread wide and heads thrown up to the sky as they howled their opening music. The chord slid up and down the scale, wailing like five separate wind-storms. Maarken fought the urge to put his hands over his ears and knew the others were just as disturbed by the wild music. Feylin huddled in her cloak. Pol froze in place, eyes huge as he listened to the terrible dragonsong. But the females reacted with the dragon equivalent of shrugged shoulders, and the older ones opened their jaws in wide, insulting yawns.
The reddish-brown sire was the first to move. His head dropped down and his wings swept sand before him in great glistening waves. His song became a low, keening moan as he reached up, claws extended as if to tear down slices of sky. Neck writhing, wings sweeping back and forth to spew sand in all directions, his voice rose to a screech once more. And then he began to dance.
Poetry in flight, dragons ought to have been lumbering lumps on the ground. But their grace in the air was nothing compared to the elegance of the sand-dance. Swaying from side to side as smoothly as a slim willow in the breeze, the russet dragon folded his wings, spread them, swept them out once more as he paced with nimble ease across the sand. He was soon joined by the black dragon with rose-brown underwings, then a gold, then the brown and the second gold. The sequence of movements was as orderly and patterned as a Sunrunner’s colors, repeating from dragon to dragon as each followed the other in ritual steps and wingsweeps.
Sand flew high and wide as the dragons repeated the steps over and over, each marking out his territory, each rising to full height with wings spread before dipping down again to pace the dunes, swaying gracefully until the end of the sequence when it was his turn to repeat the song. The younger females were shifting in rhythm with their tentative choices, sometimes changing in mid-beat as their attention was captured by another male moving in a different place in the dance. The older she-dragons had abandoned their pretense of indifference, but still sat back on their haunches, waiting to be impressed.
The black dragon tired first. He missed a step, one wing folding down to keep his balance. An ash-gray sire instantly saw the opening and swooped down, calling out derisively to his faltering rival. The black snarled, but the pattern had been broken and he could not recapture it. He took a few reluctant steps back, then beat his wings to lift away from his landing challenger. The gray sire then began his dance, fresh and energetic. The young females immediately focused on him, and the first rearrangement of their ranks came as they were attracted by his vigor.
But when he accidentally caught the first joint of a wing on one foreclaw, the females hissed their disapproval and abadoned him to watch the other sires. A gold had dropped out, replaced by another brown with gorgeous red-gold underwings. Another dragon, very young and without a battle scar on his hide, was bold enough to join in without taking the place of a faltering sire, spreading his wings in defiance of the older females’ snorts at his insolence. It was as if he knew very well that his green-bronze hide, accented by startling silver underwings, made him easily the most beautiful of all the sires—and he intended to take advantage of it.
They .were moving apart now, slowly, subtly, and the females were moving with them. The dance continued. The russet sire who had begun it all drifted farther and farther from the territory he’d marked out; he had lasted the course and would now see how many mates he had won. Seven followed him, young ones who waddled egg-heavy after him. It was his turn to pretend to ignore them, sweet revenge after their seeming indifference earlier. One of them cried out plaintively, and another hurried forward to nip gently at his tail, but he showed no sign of noticing them at all. This impressed one of the older females, who started after him. A few moments later, another followed.
The group was well away from the others when the sire suddenly sprang up with a single powerful stroke of his wings and landed neatly behind the two older females. His attempts to herd them after the other seven brought howls of protest and a few angry snarls. One eluded him and returned to the watching group. The sire bellowed at her on her way past him, but evidently felt she was not worth going after; he gave a yowl obviously meant as an insult, to which she responded by baring her teeth. The russet sire then gathered his eight females and they took off at his side for the caves above Sky bowl.
This process was repeated seven more times. Eight sires captured anywhere from five to nine females each. But there were still five males unmated at the end of the dance, and their furious screams of rejection made the sands tremble and the watching humans shrink into their cloaks.
Maarken, enchanted during the dragons’ performance, abruptly felt the delicate brush of familiar, beloved colors. Startled, he turned his head instinctively to the west, where the sun was still above the Vere Hills.
Is that how you ‘d behave if I refused you? came a teasing voice in his mind.
Worse! he replied, gathering Hollis’ brilliant colors to him and steadying the weave of sunshine. How long have you been watching?
Only a little while, and with much less devotion than you were. It took me four tries to get your attention! But they ‘re magnificent, aren ‘t they ?
Next time you’ll be here with me to watch them. Where’ve you been all day?
Working since dawn with your fiend of a brother, helping him translate those scrolls Meath brought. I’m surprised I’m able to communicate in words less than four hundred years old!
There are a few words I’d like to hear right now, he suggested, and smiled as her colors laughed around him. But I’ll say them first because I’m a knight, a gentleman, and a lord. I love you! And Sioned knows it—not that it’s you specifically, but we have her help if we need it.
The legendary Sunrunner Princess. Is she really as beautiful as they say?
If you like redheads. I like blondes. Hollis, I’ve spoken to my parents about opening Whitecliff, so they know I’m ready to marry. Why don’t I tell them now instead of waiting ?
Maarken, I love you, but—don’t we owe them a look at me first ? What if they don’t like me ?
Don’t be ridiculous. And whatever you say, I’m going to marry you.
Could you go against your parents’ wishes?
Just see if I don’t, if it comes to that, which it won’t! I’ll wait for the Rialla if that’s what you want, but the Lastday marriages are going to be led by us, my love.
Ah, Maarken—damn, I can hear Andry yelling for me. I have to go. Take care, beloved. Goddess keep you.
He became aware of Pol beside him, tugging his sleeve, and sighed. The threads unraveled and he was back in the Desert, and Pol was whispering, “You were Sunrun-ning, weren’t you?”
“Maarken nodded. “Yes.”
“Where to? How far? Who did you talk to?”
“Taking your questions in order—a long way, very far, and none of your business.” He softened the words with a smile. Getting to his feet, he stretched the stiffness out of his muscles and saw that everyone else was doing the same. Pol, with all the supple resilience of early youth, jumped up and ran to his parents to share his excitement at witnessing the sand-dance. Maarken joined his own parents, grinning as Chay heaved himself to his feet and rubbed his backside.
“How can I be numb and still ache?” he complained. “I’m too damned old for this nonsense.”
“The walk back to the horses will take the kinks out,” Tobin said. “Pol and Rohan are going to the caves, Maar-ken. Do you want to go with them?”
“I promised Sionell and Jahnavi a full account before dinner tonight, so I’ll ride back with you to Skybowl.”
“And to enough bottles of Ostvel’s best cactus brew to soothe my old bones,” Chay added. To Rohan he called out, “If you’re back late, don’t expect me to save any for you!”
“Not even for your prince?”
“Not a thimbleful. It’s your fault I’m out here roasting like a prize sheep in the first place.”
“Not just any old sheep, darling,” his wife said sweetly. “Definitely a ram.”
“Tobin!” He took one long braid in each hand and tugged her to him for a kiss. “You’re shocking the children.”
Maarken grinned as he pictured himself and Hollis similarly “shocking” their own children. One day people would say their names in the same breath, the way they said “Chay and Tobin” or “Rohan and Sioned.” One day very soon.