Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince (28 page)

A
violet sky loomed close and dark, dripped a stinging crystal rain that needled into his flesh. He moaned, covering his face with hands frozen into brittle carved ice, and sucked a deep breath of water-thick air. It hurt going into his lungs, hurt even more when it choked out of him in a sob. So it had finally happened, one part of his mind observed; he had taken too much
dranath
and was dead. There was a certain peace in the idea, although death was even more painful than life. Perhaps that served him right.

He peered through his parted fingers at the sky to see that it formed distinct segments, rising on either side of him, angling up to a point over his head. Not sky at all, only one of Roelstra’s violet tents. No freezing needles of rain, either, merely the lack of
dranath
turning his nerves to pinpoints of agony.

Crigo sat up, throbbing head gripped between his hands. Near his bed was a table with a silver wine pitcher. He gulped half the drugged wine directly from the chill container, then fell back with a long shudder of anticipated relief.

He had no memory of a journey, but there was only one place he could be: Waes. The tent around him, the voices outside, the scents of crushed grass and the river all confirmed the location. But he ought to have remembered sailing down the Faolain from Castle Crag—unless the drug-hunger meant he had been deliberately deprived of
dranath
so that the trip over water would incapacitate him. Either that, or he had indeed come close to killing himself on that night he had woven a moonlit path to Stronghold.

The last thing he truly remembered was that night, and he wished he did not. Especially did he recall the colors of the
faradhi
’s mind, lucent and distinctly feminine—fire-gold to burn him, river-blue to drown him, summer-green to seduce his arid mind into the richness of her, and the black anger of fierce protectiveness, implacable condemnation. Forcing himself to reconstruct the scene, he saw again through the wine steward’s eyes the assembly of vassals at Stronghold. He had done it before, using the man’s eyes and ears to observe for Roelstra. But she had caught him at it. He gasped as he looked on her face in memory—proud features too strong for conventional beauty, raging green eyes, red-gold hair. But more than the sight of her, the memory of her mind’s grasp terrified him. How skillfully she had woven the moonlight into a trap, until he had cried out to Lady Andrade and lost control.

He paused to calm his racing heartbeats, sank deeper into the drug. He knew the girl’s colors now; she might be able to identify his. But who was she? The wine steward had been about his kitchen duties earlier, so Crigo had not seen why she had been placed at the high table. Other
faradh’im
had been seated elsewhere in the Great Hall. Why had she been singled out?

“Awake at last, I see.”

The sound of Roelstra’s voice spasmed Crigo to a sitting position. The High Prince stood in the center of the carpet, magnificent in a violet silk tunic, dominating and angry. Crigo stammered out, “My l-lord—”

“You were unconscious for two days, and even when you woke you made no sense before falling back into your stupor. Tell me what happened that night.”

“I don’t know.” He drew bony knees to his chin and wrapped his arm around his legs. “I watched as you bid me. There was a girl—”

“What girl? What did she look like?”

“Green eyes, red hair. A
faradhi
.” He frowned, bringing the picture into focus again. “Seven rings—no, six, and an emerald not given by Andrade. We—they—don’t use jewels much. She was powerful, my lord, she caught me—”

“Her name?”

Crigo shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“You’ve not been gone from Goddess Keep for that many years. She must have been in training before you left. Think, damn you! Tell me her name!”

Unbidden, there came to mind the image of a red-haired girl, one of the scores of girls at Goddess Keep and beneath the notice of an arrogant young Sunrunner like himself. Yet he remembered her. “Sioned,” he whispered.

“Sioned,” Roelstra repeated. “A
faradhi
named Sioned. . . . If I can detach her from Andrade—”

“The
Lady
is here?” Crigo gasped.

“That doesn’t concern you.” The High Prince approached and glanced down into the half-empty pitcher. “Drink up, Crigo,” he said with a cold smile. “After all this time, you need it.”

The Sunrunner obeyed as Roelstra strode from the tent. Andrade was here. Terror griped him, suddenly and paradoxically replaced by joy. He could ruin the High Prince by revealing that the
faradhi
she had thought dead these many years was still alive. The power of it made him laugh softly and he clutched the knowledge to him like a long-sought lover. But in the next instant he trembled, empty once again of all but the drug. Roelstra would never have brought him here if he feared betrayal. Crigo had no power at all over anyone, much less the High Prince. The game, as always, belonged only to Roelstra.

Tobin kissed her husband good morning to such effect that he tried to pull her back down into their bed with him. When she resisted, laughing, Chay opened his eyes, then opened them wider. She was fully dressed, her hair in a cool twist atop her head, and at her belt was a fat leather purse. Chay groaned.

“Oh, Goddess! You’re off to make me a pauper again!”

“And I’ll have a splendid time doing it, too,” she teased. “Come on, move your lazy bones. It’s well past sunup. And you know that anything I spend at the Fair, you’ll only win back when you and Akkal come in first at the races.”

“You spend so much to give me an incentive to win,” he glowered.

“How well you know me! Anyway, it’s not all ours. Mother sent some for me to spend on Rohan, and
he
gave me quite a bit—to spend as I like, or so he said, but what he really meant is that I’m to buy things for Sioned.”

“She’s going with you?”

“Of course.” Tobin kissed him again. “It seems I’m getting predictable. You’re going to get bored with me.”

She threw his clothes at him on her way out of the tent. Outside in the warm sunlight, she stretched widely, sneezed away the tickle of unaccustomed scents, and walked over to the Sunrunners’ tent where Sioned and Camigwen were waiting for her. With them was a young
faradhi
introduced as Meath.

“If it pleases your highness, I’ll escort you today,” he said giving her a bow as elegant as her husband’s.

“That’s very kind of you,” Tobin replied sweetly. “You can carry the packages.”

Meath sighed. “That’s exactly what Cami has in mind, your grace.”

“I’d like it very much if you’d all call me by my name, and forget this nonsense of titles,” Tobin said as they started off.

“Thank you,” Camigwen said shyly. “I’m Cami to my friends, and if Sioned doesn’t promise to buy something pretty for herself, I’ll tell you what her nickname was as a child!”

“You wouldn’t!” Sioned protested, her eyes dancing. “Besides, remember all the things I know about
you
! And stop worrying, Cami—I’m going to spend every copper I have. I’ve never been to a
Rialla
Fair. Will it have everything we’re told it will, y—Tobin?” she corrected herself with a smile.

“And more,” Tobin promised. They joined the line of people waiting to cross the bridge over to the fairground. Just upriver at the dock, the High Prince’s barge bobbed gently on the water, violet sails wrapped tight around the masts. Tobin averted her eyes, determined that political thoughts would not spoil this, the first day of the
Rialla
. “If you would, please keep an eye out for things my sons would like. We have a thriving trade through Radzyn port, but I want to find something special for them today.”

Meath was all for shouldering a path through the crowd to the front of the line, but Tobin explained that today everyone was of a rank with everyone else to prevent wasting time over silly questions of honor and prestige. Enough of that sort of thing went on at the more formal functions, and it certainly did not belong on a holiday at the Fair. As they crossed the bridge, Camigwen gazed straight ahead, her expression grim. Tobin noticed, and smiled.

“Even the sight of water gets to you, doesn’t it?”

“I can’t watch the waves break on the cliffs without getting sick.”

“What about you, Sioned?”

“You’d never get her to admit it,” Meath chuckled.

“I was used to it before I left home,” she explained. “My father’s keep is called River Run, so I’ve lived waterside all my life.”

Tobin’s brows arched fractionally. River Run was a holding kept in the family of the Princes of Syr; Sioned’s blood was better than Tobin had thought. Not that it mattered to her, but a bride with noble connections was better than one without insofar as the vassals were concerned. She reminded herself to spread the story and wondered why Rohan or Andrade had not already done so.

Meath was indeed cast in the role of pack horse. The Fair was a treasure house of goods from all over the continent, and Tobin couldn’t buy things fast enough. Camigwen added even more to the load. Needles, embroidery thread, candles, pottery, carved boxes, Fironese crystal, painted tin boxes filled with spices for taze—the two women spent recklessly, their packages wrapped and handed to Meath. At first he stowed them away about his person, but soon ran out of pockets. He then acquired a sack with a drawstring top. It quickly filled; he bought another. Whenever Tobin directed a merchant to send a made-to-order item to Prince Rohan’s tents, Meath’s eyes gleamed with gratitude.

Sioned picked over the offered merchandise but purchased nothing. Toward noon she treated the others to a delicious snack of fresh spicebread, fruit, cheese, and a small bottle of mossberry wine each. They sat beneath one of the trellises along the river to eat, laughing as Meath speculated whether it was the wooden beams or the flowering vines that held the ancient arches up.

Sioned opened the wine, saying, “We make this in my part of Syr. I haven’t tasted any of this holding’s vintages since I was a little girl.” She took a healthy swig, closed her eyes, then swallowed and smiled happily. “Perfect!”

“Then open mine, quick,” Meath implored. “My throat thinks it’s back in the Desert.”

They lingered after the meal, enjoying the cool breeze off the river scented with the crimson and blue flowers overhead. Other fairgoers strolled past, and as Tobin returned their greetings she kept up a running commentary so Sioned could learn about the people she would deal with as Rohan’s princess. Not many of the
athr’im
attended, only the most important ones or those in high favor with their princes—or the young ones who needed brides, like the Desert’s own Lord Eltanin. Tobin asked Sioned why her brother was not here, considering his close connection with the Syrene royal house.

The
faradhi
snorted. “Davvi leaves River Run once a year, to pay his duty to Prince Haldor at High Kirat. I think his wife’s afraid someone will make off with a grain or two if he’s gone more often. She’s rather tight-fisted.”

“Lady Wisla,” Cami said acidly, “is miserly. You know it’s true, Sioned. She begrudged you a dowry and that’s why you were sent to Goddess Keep. And not a single invitation since to visit home,” she added to Tobin.

“I’ve heard that River Run is a beautiful holding,” the princess said, while thinking that it really was a very good thing that Sioned had no more ties with Syr. Denied her own home, she would more readily embrace Stronghold and the Desert. She rose and brushed off her skirts. “I still have to find something for the boys. And Sioned hasn’t bought anything except our lunch.”

Camigwen poked the prone Meath in the shoulder. “Wake up, we’re going.”

“Huh?” He straightened up from his nap in the grass. “Oh—sorry. Lead on, ladies. The old horse has a few good measures left in him yet, but will need to be fed and watered well tonight.”

“Perhaps you can persuade Hildreth to brush you down,” Sioned teased, and Meath glowered to cover his blush at the mention of the pretty
faradhi.

On their return to the Fair, Camigwen gave a delighted cry at a display of lutes and settled down to bargain for one decorated with white elkhoof inlay. Tobin wandered over to the next stall to admire a rainbow of silk ribbons, but was distracted by Sioned’s excited call from a booth crammed with toys. She held up a pair of carved wooden knights on horseback, one dressed in a red tunic with a white cloak, the other in the opposite combination of colors.

“The saddles are real leather,” Sioned told her. “And look—the cinches really work, and the swords come out of the scabbards, and the knights’ heads and arms move! Aren’t they wonderful?”

Each was a full two handspans high, the workmanship exquisite. Tobin knew the twins would be wild to own them. “And in Chay’s colors, too! Thank you for finding them, Sioned!” Then, eyeing the toymaker, who was preening himself at the praise, she asked, “How much are you going to claim they’re worth?”

While they bargained, Sioned picked up another toy. Tobin watched from a corner of her eye as the girl admired a glazed pottery doll dressed in the height of fashion. Big blue eyes winked from a lovely little face crowned by hair made of fine silk threads arranged in golden braids.

“I wish I knew someone who had a little girl,” Sioned murmured wistfully.

“
You
might,” Tobin said just as softly.

“A very reasonable price, my lady,” the toymaker said, scenting another sale. “The delight of any child—and another dress comes with her, too. See?” He brought out a box and revealed a gown of pink silk set with chips of crystal. “Look how it matches her necklace,” he urged. “What little lady wouldn’t adore a doll like this? If there’s no small darling in her cradle now at your keep, look to the time when there will be—imagine her playing with this little charmer!”