Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince (58 page)

Everything, it seemed. Her first words were, “With the Merida on one front and the High Prince on the other, we’ll have much to do in freeing Rohan.”

Relieved that she would not have to make long explanations, Sioned told her, “I see Ostvel and the men have been talking. Good. Maeta, I need the strongest, fastest horse in the stables, a waterskin and food, and absolute secrecy. And I need them all tonight.”

Maeta bit into a marsh apple, chewed, swallowed, and replied, “There’s a gate near the grotto you can use. It lets out into the cliffs, with room enough for a single rider to pass safely and quietly.”

Sioned blinked. “Rohan never told me about—”

“That’s because he doesn’t know. One day my mother and I will have to show you all Zehava’s improvements. Milar wasn’t the only one to leave her mark on Stronghold.”

Sioned marveled at the effort and secrecy it had taken to carve such a path from the keep, but put nothing beyond the old prince. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“As for the timing—before dawn. We’ll need deep sleep and no one stirring early.”

“I’ll leave the arrangements to you.”

Maeta nodded. “My lady, I’ve been thinking. We have the chance for action against the Merida, and not just at Tiglath.”

“Yes?” Sioned asked, bewildered but intrigued.

“Empty Stronghold of all but the best archers, and send everyone else to Remagev by night. The Merida will think them off to Feruche or down south with Lord Chaynal.” She grinned as if she was a dragon spotting easy prey. “We’ll leave ourselves vulnerable to attack. They won’t be able to resist.”

Sioned laughed. “They’ll split up to take advantage, and we’ll pick them off from the cliffs! And when they pause to regroup, we’ll hit them from the east with the troops sent to Remagev!”

“Very good, my lady,” Maeta approved. “We’ll make a warrior of you yet. Shall I order it, then?”

“Please! Present the plan to Ostvel tomorrow. I know he’ll like it.” She thought with satisfaction that this scheme would also help Walvis and Eltanin—and keep Ostvel too busy to come after her. Then something occurred to her. “Maeta, you’ve made no objection to my leaving.”

“You’re sovereign lady here, and may do as you please when it pleases you to do it.” The black eyes danced as the pious words were spoken, and Sioned knew that she and Maeta understood each other perfectly. “And no one is counting on a
faradhi,
” Maeta added.

“Rohan must.”

“But Ianthe is not. That’s why I’m letting you do this thing that will have Ostvel ready to skin me alive. I know Sunrunners—and I know you, my lady.” She paused, then smiled again. “I also know a little something about Feruche.”

Sioned stared, then nodded slowly. “I see.”

All at once the outer door was flung open and Riyan hurtled through to bury his face against Sioned’s shoulder. She hugged him close, trying to make sense of his babbled words, and Maeta unobtrusively departed before Ostvel could catch up with his offspring and ask questions Maeta did not want to answer.

“Here now, a little slower!” Sioned held Riyan on her knees and looked into his eyes that were so much like Camigwen’s that it hurt sometimes to see them. She brushed the soft hair from his forehead, wishing her friend was here now. Cami would understand. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Tilal’s home!” He bounded off her knees and raced from the room, returning a few moments later, dragging Tilal by the hand. “Hurry, hurry,” Riyan urged.

The squire looked as exhausted as Sioned felt. She rose, embraced him tenderly, then stood back to inspect him. A young man looked out of his eyes, not a boy. Sioned drew him over to a chair, bade him sit, and gestured Riyan to quiet.

At first Tilal spoke in measured sentences that sounded as if he’d rehearsed them all the way from Skybowl. He was a soldier giving a report, not a boy made fearful and furious by what he’d seen. Yet as he talked on, his sunburned cheeks flushed a deeper red and his green eyes began to flash, and the words tumbled over each other.

“—and we got back to Skybowl and I made a map just as Feylin told me to do.” He pulled a creased bit of parchment from his filthy tunic. “It’s of the castle, as much as I saw of it. It’s a horrible place, my lady, you can feel
her
all over it! Feylin told me to draw this so you’d know, where things are.” He handed it over and she unfolded it, seeing instantly that her original idea would not work. Tilal saw her frown, and went on, “With enough troops—you’re a Sunrunner and we could—”

“The only thing you’re going to do is take a bath and get some sleep,” Ostvel said from the doorway. All three glanced around, startled that he had been there all this time.

“But Papa, I haven’t heard everything yet!” Riyan protested.

“There’ll be plenty of time tomorrow. It’s time for boys to be asleep.”

Tilal’s whole body went rigid. Sioned shook her head fractionally at Ostvel in warning and said, “There’s more I must hear, and more I must tell him. Riyan, you may ask your questions tomorrow. Go with your father now, please.”

A stern glance from Ostvel silenced the boy, and he trudged out of the room. His father shut the door, and when she was alone with Tilal, Sioned took sorrowful inventory again of her nephew’s face. He bore the marks of bad treatment, exhaustion, and worries far too heavy for a child of his years.

“I saw your father in the south,” Sioned began. “The High Prince is encamped with young Prince Jastri of Syr. They say it’s for training purposes, but your father is wise and knew it’s really for war against the Desert. He came to Lord Baisal’s holding to warn us and join us.”

The green eyes went wide. “But—what about Mother and everyone at home?”

“No one has ever succeeded in taking the keep, Tilal. Besides, River Run is far from where the fighting will be.”

He thought this over and nodded. “Lord Chaynal will lead, and my father will help. But what about Prince Rohan?
She
has him!”

“Not for long,” Sioned told him grimly. “This map is precisely what I need, Tilal. You’ve done very well.’

“When do we leave for Feruche?”

“
We
do not.” She instantly regretted the sharp answer as he drew himself up indignantly at the perceived slur on his manhood. “Tilal, you must trust me and obey me in this. Please promise me.”

Rebellion flickered in his eyes, but after a moment he nodded and bent his head. “Yes, my lady,” he whispered. “But hurry. She’ll kill him.”

“No. If she had wanted his death, the Merida would have killed him when you were captured.”

The boy looked up with renewed hope; this logic had not occurred to him before. “That’s true! And they were careful on the journey to keep him alive, even if he was tied up and unconscious.”

She hid a wince at the image this brought to mind, and said, “Tomorrow I want you to present yourself to Maeta and tell her that I bade you to be her squire and do everything she tells you.”

“I will. But what’s going to happen?”

“She’ll explain. She has a very interesting plan for repaying the Merida for those bruises you wear and for their complicity in Princess Ianthe’s plan. Be sure to tell Maeta that I also designate you Walvis’ deputy when it comes to all things regarding Remagev.”

Tilal frowned, trying to work it out, then sat up straighter and smiled. “You’re going to give him the keep, aren’t you? That’s why you want to take special care of it!”

“Yes, and you’ll be partly responsible for making sure it gets through this in decent shape. So when you’re there, be sure to see everything you can and stay to supervise things, for it’s your sharp eyes that will give the best warning of any Merida mischief.” There, she thought, she had soothed the boy’s pride, given him something useful to do, and made sure he would stay safe in Remagev, forbidden to join the battle. “Tilal, I’d like to talk further, but it was a long ride from Faolain Lowland.”

“You ought to sleep,” he said, and stood up, every bit the young nobleman worried for his liege lady’s comfort. But a breath later he came to put his arms around her and be held for a moment, a little boy again. “I’m sorry,” he whispered miserably. “I should have helped him more, and I didn’t—”

“You did all you could. And you gave me the information I need to get him back.” Sioned stroked his hair. “Would I have entrusted Walvis’ future holding to a coward—or a fool?”

Tilal recovered himself and stepped back. “I won’t fail you, my lady. Good night.”

Alone once more, Sioned went to the two chairs placed before the garden windows and sank wearily into one of them. There was an emptiness beside her in Rohan’s usual chair that matched the void within her. They had spent so much time here, planning their dreams into reality. Ianthe would not kill him, but there were other deaths besides those of the body.

Sioned waited while the moons rose and spread their cool light across her face and hands. She gathered the strands together, knowing she could go anywhere, see anything, speak to any
faradhi
she chose. But there was one she would not touch on the moonlight, for if Andrade had any notion of her plans, she would forbid them on pain of being cast out forever. While Sioned would risk anything for her husband, she still had need of other
faradh’im.

Skillfully knotting the moonlight into a secure pathway, she flung it northward, past the great basin of Skybowl gleaming in the moonlight. She cast further until she saw the proud towers of Feruche. The garrison below was dark and deserted, but the castle windows shone with light.

Both approaches were indeed closely guarded. There were no weaknesses. She should have known better than to hope arrogance had made Ianthe careless. She had thought to use her skills to slide into this place somehow, divert guards and servants with the Fire and Air she could summon, frighten them into mistakes that would leave her free to enter unnoticed. But as she counted people and observed their actions, she knew that such subterfuge was impossible.

Which window? she wondered, hovering within the moonlight. Or was there any window at all where Rohan slept? Was he high in a tower, or down in a stone cell without light? Anger surged up and her control wavered, and she took some moments to steady herself.

She peeked into rooms at random, noting which held sleeping servants, which were empty, making mental adjustments to her memory of Tilal’s map. She could only go as far as the moonlight reached into each chamber, but that was enough. One room contained three ornate beds, each occupied by a sleeping child. Ianthe’s sons, Sioned thought, and just like her, for even in sleep the faces were willful and sly. How Roelstra must treasure them; thwarted of sons of his body, he had grandsons now that Ianthe would train up in his image.

She searched all the windows facing the moonlight, more and more afraid that Rohan was indeed in some belowstairs cell or a room on the other side of the towers where she could not go. But at last she found him.
Rohan!
she cried. But no one heard.

His sleeping face had been ravaged by pain and fever that had left deep bruises around his closed eyes. The fine, strong bones of brow and cheeks and chin were too sharp, his mouth a line of tense exhaustion. A dark silk sheet was pushed down around his waist and as he turned restlessly onto his side she saw the dressing wrapped to the wound in his shoulder. Moisture shone dully on his skin, blond hair dark with sweat. He was out of reach of the moonlight that pooled on the carpet beside the bed but did not touch his body or face. If it had, she might have touched him, that part of him that held some trace of the
faradhi
gift. But she could not.

Someone moved into the light, a curving shape, nakedness half-hidden by a cascade of dark hair reaching to her hips. Sioned trembled, felt her rings bite into her clenched fingers back where her body sat in Stronghold. Ianthe slowly insinuated herself beneath the sheet, sliding close to Rohan’s body. She placed one hand on either side of him, shook her hair down so it covered his bare chest and belly, then lowered her head to his.

The raw howl of her own voice snapped Sioned too abruptly back into her body. Colors whirled around her, confused, chaotic, refusing to form their familiar pattern. Her rings spat emerald and sapphire and amber and onyx fire into her aching eyes, became burning circles that ignited her flesh to the bone. The great emerald pulsed as if it would fill to bursting with light. It swelled and became the only thing she saw, plunging her into its glittering green depths as she sobbed aloud in terror.

Yet in the brilliant stone she saw again herself, burned by her own Fire, holding a newborn boy-child with Rohan’s golden hair.

Rohan’s son. And Ianthe’s.

A long time later, when she remembered who and what she was again, she lifted her hands. There were no charred circles of skin beneath her rings. Cool silver and gold they clasped her fingers, mocking her. Sunrunner enough to watch, but not to prevent by any arts what Ianthe was about to do.

Sioned covered her face with her hands and wept.

Coaxing, knowing fingers brought him to life. He could barely see her, backlit as she was by the moons, but he felt the familiar sweetness of her in his arms, the silk of her skin and hair.

“Sioned,” he breathed against her mouth.

“Love me! Rohan, love me—now!”

Fire blazed up between them. Her thighs parted and her breasts strained up against him, and he lost himself in the taste and scent and warmth of her, startled by her desperate urgency. But there would be time later to caress her, renew the magical joining he had known only with her and wanted only with her. Filling her body, filling himself with his need of her, filling the night with the singing soaring dragonflight of loving her.

“Yes—oh, yes—now!” she cried out, arching powerfully—and it made no difference to him that the flesh beneath his hands was too full, breasts too heavy, waist too thick and hips too sleek. He sought blindly between her soft thighs, drank from a mouth that tried to suck the life from him. Her thick perfumed hair was a living thing that twisted around him, chaining him to her. He wrenched his head away and cried out Sioned’s name in agony.