Rohan smiled, but his heart was aching as he recalled other boys, just five years old like Riyan, who’d crowed with delight while slaying another dragon. Maarken alone had gone last year to Prince Lleyn for his training as a squire, for Jahni had died of the Plague.
“Tilal’s turning into a fine lad,” Walvis observed. “When I think of what a beast he was when he came here—! I never would have believed that one of my lady’s blood could be so awful!”
It had taken time, and the back of Walvis’ hand on more than one occasion, to cure Tilal of a tendency to lord it over the other squires. By now he knew his duties and his place, and no longer traded on his relationship to Sioned. That they were close kin was obvious; they had the same green eyes and fair skin, though Tilal had his mother’s dark hair. The combination was striking, and even at ten winters old he had been well on the way to an obnoxious conceit. Walvis had cured him of that, too, over the last two years.
“Getting him away from his mother was the making of him,” Walvis continued. “Is it true she’ll be at the
Rialla
this year?”
“To catch sight of her precious darling? I’ve heard it rumored.”
“My lady isn’t going to be happy about that.”
Rohan hid sudden laughter. Much of Walvis’ conversation for the last six years had revolved around Sioned, and it had never been very difficult to discern why. Rohan could appreciate the feeling. He himself had loved her from the first moment he saw her. The squire-turned-knight fondly believed his worship of her to be a secret, and Sioned was perfection in her dealings with him. She was playful at times in the manner of a woman with a younger brother, and in public treated him with grave courtesy as a full-grown man, never as a little boy. When Rohan teased her about her adoring young champion, she replied serenely that she was only making sure that the woman Walvis truly fell in love with had a wonderful husband. Had she made mock of his feelings or tried to change them, he might have come to resent women. He was entirely content to adore and serve his prince’s lady. “He’ll grow out of it the minute he sees some pretty girl his own age,” she had told Rohan. “I must confess I’ll miss my squire, but—what do you want to bet the girl will be a redhead?
And
that he’ll name his first daughter after me?”
Rohan was wise enough not to take the bet.
Tilal and Riyan had picked themselves up by now, still giggling. Sensing that they were being watched, they waved up at Rohan and Walvis. Riyan, dark like his mother and with her remarkable eyes, jumped up and down and called excitedly, “Play dragons again, prince!”
“Again? I was your dragon the other day all afternoon long, and you killed me at least ten times! Even a dragon needs some rest. And you seem to have found another who’s much better at it than I am.”
“Prince!” the child demanded, certain of indulgence. “Come down and play dragons!”
Walvis drew breath to call down a reprimand, but Rohan placed a restraining hand on his arm. “I’d much rather play dragons than read all those reports,” he murmured wistfully.
“You haven’t had your dinner yet, my lord. And my lady won’t thank me for letting you exhaust yourself with those two whirl-winds again.”
“Walvis,” he said in exasperation, “if you and my wife don’t stop behaving like she-dragons with a single egg—do I
look
sickly and delicate to you? Or do you think I’m getting old? Decrepit and drooling at twenty-seven?” He snorted. Leaning out the window, he told the boys, “I have to play prince tonight. We’ll save dragons for tomorrow!”
Another voice came from down below, and Rohan grinned as Ostvel hurried into the gardens. “Riyan! Tilal! You know better than to make so much noise and trouble for your prince!” He shaded his eyes against the setting sun with one hand, squinting up at the window where Rohan stood. “I’m sorry, my lord. If there aren’t fifty eyes on them both, they disappear.” Ostvel clamped a hand on Tilal’s shoulder as the boy began edging toward the gates.
“It’s all right,” Rohan said, careless of paternal discipline. “It’s good to see them having fun.”
“Well, no more dragons today, at any rate,” Ostvel ordered, and scooped his son into one arm. “Come along, Tilal. You’ll want to spend some time getting the grass stains out of my cloak, I’m sure.”
“But I have to serve at the high table tonight,” the boy began with a hopeful glance up at Rohan.
“And so you shall,” Ostvel agreed. “The cloak will be waiting for you.”
Rohan turned from the windows, keeping his smile in place to hide the child-hunger that rose in him.
His
sons should be down there, laughing and growing and playing dragons. His sons. . . . His eye lit on the reports and he made a quick decision. “I’m
not
going to play prince tonight, Walvis. I want a bath, my dinner, and my wife—in that order.”
The young man grinned at him. “So now my lady takes third place to being clean and fed?”
“Unless she wants a dirty, bad-tempered husband, she does!” Walvis went downstairs with the orders, and the household system Camigwen had created went smoothly into action. By the time Rohan was soaking in a tub, a copious supper for two was being prepared for delivery to their graces’ airy chambers. Like most persons for whom such establishments are formed, Rohan was unaware of its workings. He only knew that the few orders he ever had to give were carried out promptly, quietly, and with a minimum of fuss—and none of the former chamberlain’s hand-wringing.
Alone in the blue-and-white tiled bathroom, Rohan’s thoughts returned to his interrupted musings on the past. Acquiring the
dranath
had afforded him a sight of someone he had not thought to encounter again: Princess Ianthe. Roelstra had been unable to resist the price Rohan had offered for the drug, and a detachment of troops had been dispatched to Feruche from the Veresch. Rohan and Farid had met the group halfway between Ianthe’s castle and Skybowl, and bags of gold had been exchanged for bags of
dranath.
Ianthe had watched from the saddle of a splendid white mare, lovelier than ever and unashamedly—even triumphantly—pregnant. She still had no legal husband, but Rohan suspected that the beautiful young man riding at her side was the baby’s father. Certainly his charms were sufficient to send lust raging through chaster hearts than Ianthe’s. Rohan said nothing to her and met her gaze only once—and what he saw in her eyes had chilled him to his marrow.
How had he paid for this treasure of
dranath
that had saved dragon lives? How had he insured their survival and distributed even more of the drug to other princedoms without asking payment? Rohan luxuriated in cool bath water and shook his head in wry amusement, remembering his stark astonishment when Farid had casually shown him the gold.
For fifteen years, the
athri
of Skybowl had been melting dragon shells collected from long-abandoned caves in the hills. He had done it in secret and under Zehava’s orders, his people loyal to their last breath as they brought forth the gold that had enabled Zehava to consolidate his power in the Desert. Everyone had always marveled at Skybowl’s prosperity, that rough holding without decent farmland or grazing, and Rohan had finally discovered the source of Farid’s complacency during good harvests and bad. Dragon gold. Zehava had forbidden the
athri
to tell Rohan of its existence, for he had wanted his son to become strong in his own right without having the prop of unlimited wealth from the very start of his reign.
“But
why
?” Rohan fumed as Farid told him this. “I, myself, found gold dust in a dragon’s cave years ago. I never had the time to pursue this discovery before now. Why keep it from me?”
Farid shrugged. “Do you remember when he tossed you into the lake when you were a little boy?”
“And now you’re pulling me out—just like before!”
“I would have told you eventually, once you’d found your feet as a prince. Your father didn’t want things to be easy for you.”
“Easy?”
Rohan echoed in amazement. “With the Merida and Roelstra and the dragons—not to mention all those damned princesses—
easy
?”
Farid had laughed, and after a moment Rohan’s sense of humor triumphed over his outrage. Part of his mirth had been caused by the wonderful joke he would play on Roelstra, for instead of beggaring himself and his vassals or making odious concessions to the High Prince, there was unlimited gold to fill his coffers even after the grotesque sum paid for the
dranath.
But there had been bitterness in his laughter as well, for Zehava, even knowing how necessary the dragons were, had gone on killing them. Rohan surmised that his father considered his warrior’s reputation to be of more importance than the survival of the dragons and that he had further assumed Rohan would, when he became prince, devise a way to preserve their numbers and therefore their output of gold.
A clever and ruthless man, Zehava—but he had reckoned without the Plague. Rohan shook his head again and got out of his bath. He let the air dry him and, wrapped in a thin silk robe, went into the bedchamber. The serenity of the rooms his mother had created for him and Sioned soothed him as always. Nothing that had been his parents’ remained but for the huge bed in which generations of princes had been conceived, had given their first cries, and had breathed their last. The rich, bright colors of Zehava’s day had been replaced by deep greens and blues that complimented Sioned’s fire-gold looks and Rohan’s blondness. Tables, chairs, and wardrobes of heavy dark wood had given way to lighter, more casually elegant furniture. He had rarely been comfortable in these rooms when his parents had inhabited them, and had been surprised at how quickly they had become his refuge. Here he and Sioned had loved each other through nights without end, shared secrets and plans and dreams for the future. And here, too, he had wept with her over the loss of their children.
The first time had been the winter after their marriage; the second, that next autumn. She carried each child just long enough to thicken her waist a little. Pregnant again the summer of the Plague, the disease had not robbed her of the child; the
dranath
had. The heavy dosage necessary to save her life had devastated her
faradhi
senses and come close to addicting her to the drug. Even in the ungifted, the required amount brought hallucinations as Rohan remembered only too well from his own brief illness. He and Sioned had both survived; their child had not, and there had been no sign of another since.
Rohan sat down at a table spread with silk and silver and the Fironese crystal goblets Sioned had bought at the Fair six years ago. Ianthe had spoiled that night for them, and Rohan’s brows knotted at thought of the princess. She had three fine sons by three different lovers, and had protected them and her castle against Plague by having anyone who showed signs of any illness thrown down the cliffs. Rohan could not entirely condemn her for that. He knew he would have done the same if there had been any chance of saving his mother or Camigwen or Jahni, sparing Sioned an instant’s suffering, or keeping their child alive within her body. He had himself executed seven people with his own sword when they were caught hoarding
dranath
to sell at staggering prices. But the law would say he had done justice where Ianthe had done deliberate murder. Yet he could not condemn her. He understood.
A small whirlwind blew in through the outer door and forgot to close it behind him. Rohan gasped at the impact of Riyan’s small body against his chest and hugged back.
“Papa says for me to say I’m sorry,” the boy explained. “I’m sorry!”
“Apology accepted—if you’ll let me breathe!” Rohan laughed and settled Riyan onto one knee. Camigwen’s beautiful eyes looked at him from her son’s impish face, and Rohan hid another ache of loss behind a smile as Ostvel appeared in the doorway. “Don’t scold him. He only came to tell me he’s sorry.”
“And well he should be.
Now
he’s interrupted your dinner!” Ostvel lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender, grinning. “Sioned says start without her.”
“I already have.” He held Riyan out from him. “And if it’s time for my dinner, then it’s certainly time for you to be in bed, young sir. Take it as a royal command from your prince.”
The child sighed. “You’re much more fun as my dragon,” he complained.
“I’ve heard little boys say that before. It didn’t work then and it won’t work now. Off to bed with you.” He set the boy on his feet and Riyan went to his father. Rohan had to glance away as the small fingers disappeared into Ostvel’s hand.
“My lord?”
He met his friend’s gaze, wearing another careful smile. Ostvel wasn’t fooled, but only his eyes spoke of his compassion. What he said aloud was, “Sioned also mentioned something about sneaking around in the dark.”
A genuine smile curved Rohan’s mouth. “Oh, did she, now?”
“Is it another game?” Riyan asked eagerly. “Can I play, too?”
Ostvel winked at Rohan. “When you’re older! Say good night to your prince.”
“Good night,” Riyan echoed dutifully. “Don’t forget about playing dragons.”
“I won’t forget. Sleep well.”
When the door had closed behind them, he resumed his dinner with an appetite that would have pleased Walvis, who, along with Sioned, waged a constant battle against Rohan’s tendency to work too much and eat too little. When the food was gone he lazed back in his chair, wineglass in hand. Obedient to the teasing promise they’d made, he and Sioned met every so often in the gardens late at night. Their household grinned, pretended not to notice, and strictly observed the rule that whenever the prince and princess disappeared, nothing short of the impending arrival of Roelstra’s armies was to disturb them. Such delicious foolishness was exactly what Rohan needed tonight, and when it was dark he took a full bottle of wine and the glasses with him from the chamber.
Barefoot, clad only in a thin silk robe, he went down the privy stairs and made his way through the empty gardens to the grotto. Sioned was a whispering excitement all along his body, a cool breeze through his heart and mind. He stood before the waterfall and closed his eyes, sensing her presence an instant before her arms slid around his waist and her body pressed to his back. He savored the enchantment as her lips brushed his nape.