Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince (67 page)

He was even more astounded when he put his arms around her. “It’s not like you to be helpless,” he whispered against her silvering blonde hair. “It’s not like my Lady at all.”

The gardens Princess Milar had planned and cared for so lovingly wilted as summer dragged on. The grotto waterfall dwindled to a thin ribbon and the pond below it was nearly dry, thirsty plants and mosses drinking up what little moisture the spring provided. But it remained a haven of cool shade in the oppressive heat and silence of Stronghold, and it was to the grotto that Sioned often went in the long days of her waiting.

She did not go there to be alone. The keep was empty; she, Tobin, and Ostvel remained, along with Myrdal and three servants. The rest had gone with Rohan or north to Tiglath or to escort Sorin and Andry to Remagev. Solitude was a fact of life in Stronghold.

Neither did she seek the grotto to indulge herself in memories. The paradox was that empty as the keep always seemed to her when her husband was gone, his presence filled the place. The delicate balance between the ache of missing him and the ache of sensing him everywhere perfectly matched her equally precarious juggling of serenity and rage. Most of the time she preserved her equilibrium. When she could not, she went to the grotto and counted off each day of Ianthe’s bearing, numbering the days left until midwinter when she would return to Feruche.

She had lost count of how many times she had felt the touch of Andrade’s colors on the sunlight. She had rejected each assault with defenses Urival had taught her—not because she feared Andrade would sway her, but because of her jealous guardianship of hard-won balance. The Lady’s arguments and prohibitions would have loosed Sioned’s rage, and she could not afford it. Not until midwinter, when she could face its object.

It was after yet another attempted contact one day, an insidious weaving of great skill that very nearly worked, that Sioned left the sunlit inner court where she had been currying her horse and made her way through the half-dead gardens to the grotto. A few paces from its sheltering trees she stopped, transfixed by sudden music. Ostvel’s lute sang so rarely that its notes brought tears to her eyes. It was said that the Storm God rarely gifted Sunrunners with the music that was his voice in the wind and water; Mardeem’s talent had been an anomaly. But Ostvel, for all that he had served most of his life at Goddess Keep and was now steward to a
faradhi
princess, had been gifted with the sensitive fingers and soul of a bard.

It was Camigwen’s favorite song he played. A sprightly ballad when she had been alive, since her death it had slowed to a stately tune that slipped every so often into a minor key. Sioned was filled with tender, painful memories of her friend’s dark face and lustrous eyes, her scolding and smiles, the warmth of her colors. Though Sioned had walled herself off to all other
faradh’im
and Tobin was the one who received messages on the sunlight, at this moment she was filled with recollections of that first joyous weaving of sunlight, lessons learned and practiced with Cami. How young they had been, how eager to discover their gifts, how excited by the wonders to be seen and felt on the light, how entranced by this incredible thing they could do. Sioned remembered what it had been like, and instinct opened her mind and heart to the sunlight around her.

She felt the colors of the music—sapphire and diamond and topaz and amethyst, all shot through with pulsing silvery shadows. Tilting her head back, she presented her face to the sun, eyes closed, watching her own colors form the distinctive pattern she used to weave the thread of light. Yet the lute colors were strangely insistent, swirling in momentary chaos before resolving into a coherent pattern—as if they belonged to a living being instead of wire and wood.

Sioned could not help but respond to that cry. Master Sunrunner’s training took over and swiftly she meshed the hues together, perceiving the unique design of a clever, even devious mind, unfamiliar to her but carrying something oddly familiar in its undertones.

Sioned did not withdraw, but neither did she venture down the sunlight to discover who had called to her thus. Tense and wary, she examined the pattern and found little to reassure her. There were shadows here, and flickers of diamond-white that was the color of cunning.

The deeper colors burned, outlined in Fire now, hatred clear. Sioned drew back, uncertain where that hate was directed.

“Sioned?”

Startled, she lost the pattern, and a faint cry echoed away into the sunlight. She opened her eyes and saw Ostvel, lute in one hand, staring at her.

“I was just thinking,” she managed in a fairly natural voice. “Forgive me, Ostvel, I didn’t mean to intrude on your music.”

“You didn’t. I’d finished.” He glanced away. “Sioned, I have to talk to you. Tobin heard from Kleve in Tiglath this morning.”

“What does he say?”

“No change. Minor skirmishes, but the siege continues. Walvis is worried and impatient, and that’s a dangerous combination. They need a battle to lift their spirits.” He smiled ruefully at the irony.

“Death to make them more hopeful of life.” She shook her head. “What are we doing to these children, Ostvel? Walvis should still be practicing with his sword, not using it in earnest. And Maarken—he should be learning the arts of a gentleman, not a warrior.”

“At, least they’re
doing
something.” Ostvel shrugged irritably. “I feel like one of Roelstra’s daughters caged up in Castle Crag.”

Sioned gaped at him for a moment, then threw her arms around him, laughing. “Roelstra’s daughters! Ostvel, you’re brilliant!” Not giving him the chance to voice any of his bewilderment, she ran for the keep, shouting for Tobin.

Rohan knew very well that the option of playing idiot was no longer open to him. Between his first
Rialla
and this campaign to save his princedom had come six years of capable government and ample demonstration that he was no fool. Yet his experts at war were taken aback when, on the twentieth morning after his arrival, he ordered them to break camp and move back from the Faolain. He smiled slightly, glad that the notion of retreat was abhorrent to them, and waited for them to understand.

Chay’s captain, Gryden, saw it first. “Draw them into the Long Sand, your grace?”

“Exactly. I want the troops spread out as thinly as we dare, always keeping some in sight of the sea. You’ll all leave at different times and by different routes. Confusion is the idea here, with the hint that some of you are thinking about going home. Three days from now I want this area clean, and by this I mean that Roelstra’s troops will find nothing to live on here. Strip the trees and fields bare.” Shock widened their eyes, and Rohan shrugged. “Lord Baisal’s unhappiness would be the greater if the High Prince ended by ruling the Desert. We’ll lead them as far from his holding as we can. He’s had orders to stuff and garnish his own keep, so he’ll survive. Besides, it’s not him they want. It’s me. Any questions?”

If there were, the captains were wise enough not to voice them. When they had gone, Chay met Rohan’s gaze levelly. “Are you sure you trust this information? Sioned didn’t even tell Maarken who gave it to her.”

“I trust the information and Sioned implicitly. As to the identity—we all know that
faradh’im
are capable of using eyes and ears other than their own. I don’t really care how she gets the news. You’ll admit that the analysis of Jastri’s mood is probably accurate.”

“I still don’t like it.”

Davvi cleared his throat. “Roelstra has ruled the boy thus far. Can we count on his losing his hold?”

“What else can we do? Even if they can resist coming after us, then surely they won’t be able to ignore a riverbank left open to them.”

Green eyes, so like Sioned’s, danced with sudden anticipation. “We’ll see how far they’re willing to swallow the bait. After all, we can turn and attack them at any time. Chay’s made sure of that.”

In carefully planned bad order the various companies of archers, horse, and foot soldiers packed up and marched in what appeared to be any direction their captains felt like taking them. It took Roelstra several days to investigate this, and ten more to commit himself. Though he had not followed Chay’s enticing lead, he was now unable to resist Rohan’s, and it was the presence of the young prince that made the bait irresistible.

Thus things continued through high summer. Rohan ordered retreats of a few measures at a time, his forces spread in a dangerously thin line as they pulled back to the edge of the Long Sand, with some always in sight of the sea. The green hills of the Faolain Lowlands gave way to brown scrub, with golden dunes not far beyond. Yet Roelstra was cautious about extending his lines of supply and communications. Sioned reported to Maarken that Roelstra’s own men had stayed pretty much on the other side of the river, leaving Jastri’s men to explore. And Jastri was fit to be tied.

When Rohan received word that his troops were exactly where Chay wanted them, he hesitated. Desert-bred, his people knew how to live here. Jastri’s did not. Nightly he debated with Chay and Davvi the wisdom of an attack now or further waiting while the heat debilitated Jastri’s troops. He knew his own people were puzzled by his indecision. His actions at Stronghold were common knowledge by now, and they could not help but wonder why a prince who had calmly ordered his enemies butchered should now be reluctant to perform the same service for an even greater enemy.

Yet he waited. If he could save a few lives by waiting for summer to weaken the enemy, he was willing to wait. He did not fear the battle or his own death; he feared the loss of lives held in his hands, lives for which he was responsible as their prince.

It was worst at night. During the day there were reports to be heard and ploys to be discussed and the searing heat to be lived through. But at night, after the maps had been rolled up and he lay in his cot, knowing the coolness ought to soothe him into badly needed sleep, he stayed awake. He dared not rise and pace the camp, not wishing to awaken Chay, Maarken, or Tilal, not wanting the soldiers to see his restlessness. So while his body lay quiet, his mind roamed endlessly.

Thoughts of Sioned were the most painful. She had given him cool lips and a serene smile at their farewell, but had he not held her night after night during her terrible dreaming? The woman who wept and clung to him was a stranger, as alien as the one who held out chafed, ringless hands to be kissed. Yet neither was as troubling as the Sunrunner who had conjured for him in a candleflame the night before he left Stronghold.

He flinched still when he remembered the image of herself and the boy-child, the sound of her voice, deep and redolent of Fire and shadows. “What Andrade wanted from me, Ianthe will give her. But they’ll both lose, Rohan. This prince will be yours and mine. What do I care what you did with her or to her? You tell me there was rape. Didn’t she and Andrade do the same to us? Andrade used me, Ianthe used you. But they will not use our son. Believe that, Rohan.”

Yes, he believed. He saw Ianthe’s death in Sioned’s eyes, and believed. Sioned would wait out the child as if the pregnancy was her own, while Rohan destroyed the High Prince like any other barbarian.

His child. Sioned’s child. Goddess help the boy, what sort of world would he be born into? One in which his father’s wife had killed his mother, and his father had killed his grandfather. Goddess help him.

The waiting ended eight days later for Rohan. Maarken, caught very suddenly on the sunlight, recovered from Sioned’s weaving and hurried to his father’s tent, brushing past the Desert standard on its golden staff, interrupting a conference between prince and
athri.

“Jastri’s on the move south! Sixty horse, seventy archers, and two hundred foot! He’s broken with the High Prince and will attack tomorrow.”

Rohan grabbed for a map. “Now we find out how good you are at strategy, Chay. All captains here at once, Maarken. Get Tilal to help you, then make it known among the troops that tomorrow we fight at last.”

Prince Jastri’s three hundred and thirty arrived from the south, unhindered by the horse Chay directed there. These merely shadowed the host, unseen. When Jastri turned east for the attack on what his scouts had reported as Rohan’s weakest position, he found three hundred facing him with the prince himself at their head.

This time there was no Faolain River to wash away the blood. It soaked into the gritty sand for hours, then was left behind as Rohan’s forces pushed Jastri’s back measure after measure toward the Faolain. But there was no escape across the river, for between Jastri and the bridges were another hundred Desert soldiers, led by Lord Davvi.

The young prince fled south whence he had come. Rohan, riding with Tilal and Davvi at his side, topped a small rise in time to see Chay’s red-and-white standard flash into view from the trees. Jastri was caught in the middle, the reserve horse thundering at him from the south, Rohan and Davvi’s troops marching inexorably at him from the north and west.

Rohan sent a man forward with his battle flag to signal Jastri an offer of his life if he surrendered at once. But Sioned and her informant had been correct; the young man was hot-tempered and very proud. He led his remnant of an army against Rohan, bellowing out his fury.