Dragon Prince 02 - The Star Scroll

by Melanie Rawn

  It was a long while before he spoke again, and with his words his fingers drew in to fists, bones standing out pale against sun-browned skin. “Could you do it again? Touch a dragon?”

  Startled, she said the first thing that came into her mind. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Could you?”

  She thought for a long moment, then shook her head. “How would I know what to look for? Nobody’s ever thought to memorize the colors of a dragon. And it’s the owner of those colors who discerns their shape and tone, communicates them to others.”

  “I remember Andrade explaining it to me when I was little,” he mused. “People are like windows of stained glass, each one unique, colors to be touched and woven with the light the way sun shining through a window throws colors into the air. Sioned, if dragons have those colors, too, and could be taught to understand them, what if we could—I don’t know, speak with them somehow, or see through their eyes? They’ll return to the Desert soon to mate.”

  “I don’t think it would be dangerous, my lord—just startling.” She smiled slightly. “You’ve always loved them so much. I’ll try to touch one of your dragons for you.”

  He shrugged. “Others don’t see dragons as I do.”

  Sioned thought a moment, beginning to frown. “You’d never use them wrongly, but others might. Dragons in battle—if there’s a way to do it, someone will. Goddess, why does everything have to come down to killing?”

  A smile played around his lips as he held her gaze, the prince becoming her Rohan again. “My father wanted me to have a wife, the way other princes have wives. He didn’t know Andrade would bring me a princess.”

  “If I am, then it’s you who taught me how, beloved. I’ll try to touch a dragon for you. But don’t expect too much.”

  “I expect everything of you—and I’ve never been disappointed.” He glanced at the windows, judging the time. “Feylin wants to talk dragons this morning, too. Did you see that sheaf of parchments she came armed with? More facts and figures than anybody but she understands.”

  “Have something to eat first,” Sioned suggested, gesturing to their untouched breakfast. “You know that when the two of you get to discussing dragons, you forget everything else—including your stomachs.”

  “I thought you agreed with Tobin that I’m getting middle-aged and fat.”

  She laughed and tossed a marsh apple at him. “Every man should have a middle age like yours, my lord, with a waist no wider than Maarken’s. Hush up and eat.”

  Pol and Feylin were waiting for them in the upstairs reception chamber, her daughter Sionell with them. The Lady of Remagev smiled a greeting and said, “The others are out playing—including Walvis and Chay, who call it ‘inspecting the horses.’ ”

  “I would’ve thought you’d be out there, too,” Rohan said to the children, ruffling Sionell’s mop of russet curls.

  Pol answered, “Lady Feylin says you’re going to talk dragons, Father. May I stay and listen?”

  “Of course you may. What about you, Sionell?”

  Sioned’s eleven-year-old namesake was a round and rosy copy of her mother, with the same dark red hair and the same triangular face. Her eyes alone had been inherited from Walvis, a startling blue fringed by thick black lashes over which equally dark brows arched. Her smile was his, too, a marvel of carefree good humor. “I like dragons, my lord. And I like this room—it’s my favorite at Stronghold. It’s the summer room.”

  “Then we’ll name it that,” Sioned told her. “I’ll mention it to the steward this afternoon, that the Lady Sionell has named this the Summer Room in honor of the tapestry. And so it shall be called from now on.” She met Rohan’s amused gaze briefly, and winked. They both knew that Sionell had set her heart on Pol, confirmed by the look of triumph the child directed at the young prince. Pol pretended not to notice, and Sioned hid a grin.

  They settled on the rug and Feylin spread out a formidable array of charts, maps, and lists. The lecture began with the yearly census of dragons.

  “The most reliable reports place the total number at one hundred and sixty, of which thirteen are sires and fifty-five are females of mating age. The rest are three-year-olds who won’t be involved in the mating this year. The population has taken on a fairly constant cycle, as you can see from this chart, my lord. Attrition due to old age, disease, and accident brings their numbers down to about one hundred fifty, and then after the hatching the total increases to three hundred or so.”

  “But we should have close to four hundred after hatching,” Rohan said. “With fifty-five females—”

  “But there are only forty-three usable caves,” Feylin told him. “You see the problem.”

  Pol frowned. “What happens to them if they can’t lay their eggs?”

  “They die,” Sionell replied succinctly. Pol looked slightly miffed that she knew more about dragons than he did, but she ignored his expression and went on, “Eight females died last time. We lost not only that year’s hatchlings, but all the others they would have produced in their lifetimes.”

  “But if the population remains constant, what’s the trouble?” he asked.

  “What if there’s another Plague?”

  “Let’s get back to the caves,” Feylin chided gently. “Unless we find enough to hold them all, the extra females will die. Pol’s correct that the population has stayed fairly constant within its cycle, but it can’t grow beyond three hundred because of the lack of proper caves. I won’t feel easy until there are at least five hundred dragons at the top of the cycle, preferably more.”

  “Are there any caves we might lure them to, Feylin?” Sioned asked.

  “It’s too cold up in the Veresch—the eggs wouldn’t bake enough to hatch. And further south than Rivenrock there aren’t any suitable caves at all.”

  “Rivenrock,” Rohan echoed. “There are plenty of caves there, excellent ones. Do you have any suggestions for coaxing the dragons back there, Feylin?”

  “I’m sorry, my lord.” She shook her head. “The bittersweet they feed from in mating years is thicker there than anywhere else. The caves are perfect, as you’ve said. They’ve hatched a thousand generations there, for all I know. But they won’t even fly over it anymore.”

  “I don’t understand, Mama,” Sionell complained. “I know they died of Plague there, but the ones old enough to remember that are all dead now, aren’t they? How do the younger ones know to avoid Rivenrock?”

  “I think they’re much smarter than we’ve ever imagined,” Sioned replied thoughtfully, remembering those brilliant colors touched for only an instant. “If they can communicate with each other beyond the usual ways of animals, then the older dragons may well have warned the younger to stay away from the place where so many died. Then again, perhaps the young ones were never even shown the place by their elders, so they don’t know it’s there.”

  Rohan met her gaze with intense interest. He said nothing, but she knew his thoughts as if he’d spoken them. If she could communicate somehow with the dragons on sunlight, then it might be possible to lure them back to Rivenrock, where the availability of caves would ensure their increase in numbers.

  Pol, sensitive to the glance his parents exchanged, asked, “Do you have an idea how to bring them back, Father?”

  “Nothing I’d care to commit myself to right now,” he smiled. “Feylin, how many hatchlings are we likely to see this year?”

  “About a hundred and fifty, if we’re lucky. And by the way, Sioned, you’re mistaken about dragons having to be shown their caves. Some collapsed up in Skybowl a few years ago, and the dragons went out looking for others nearby. So I’d say they know Rivenrock’s here. They just won’t go near it.”

  “I wish the sires didn’t kill each other off,” Sionell said unhappily. “It’s awful, watching a dragon die.”

  “It’s the way the strongest survive,” Pol informed her. “If there were enough caves for all the females, then the weakest of them would survive, too.”

/>   “That’s true,” Rohan said. “But Lady Feylin has the right of it. First there has to be a large enough population base so the dragons aren’t in danger. When they build up their numbers to that point, then the rule of the strongest surviving to mate will hold sway without risk.”

  “It’s like princes,” Pol said. “All trying to kill each other off, fighting over the best pieces of land. Until you showed them that you’re the strongest,” he added with pride, and Rohan frowned. “Because it’s the laws that make the greatest strength, isn’t it, Father? The power of an army is uncertain, but the law stays the law.” He sneaked a glance at Sionell to see how she was responding to this princely wisdom, and Sioned hid another smile as the little girl nodded solemnly.

  Feylin noted the byplay as well, and didn’t bother hiding her grin as she met Sioned’s gaze. “Dragons are my specialty, not princely politics,” she announced, tidying up her parchments. “I’ll leave these for you to study, my lord. Sionell, aren’t we supposed to join your father and brother and that new pony you wanted to show Lord Chaynal?”

  “Yes, Mama. Pol, come see my pony, please?”

  For a moment Sioned thought he’d agree. But then he shook his head. “I have to stay here with my mother and father, and discuss what Lady Feylin has told us. Perhaps later.”

  Sionell’s black brows rushed together as she sprang to her feet. “Perhaps later we’ll be out riding and you won’t get the chance!” She remembered to bow to Sioned and Rohan before running out the door.

  The adults heroically kept mirth in check as Pol glared at the empty doorway. Feylin managed to restrain herself until after she had closed the door behind her, but Sioned thought she heard a gasp of uncontrollable giggles a moment later—and wished she could indulge in the same.

  Pol muttered something under his breath, and Rohan turned a bland gaze on his son. “What was that you said?”

  “Nothing. What are we going to do about the dragons, Father?”

  “For starters, we’re all going up to Skybowl to watch them this year.”

  “Everybody?”

  “Why, yes,” Rohan replied, all innocence, and Sioned nearly lost her battle with laughter. “Walvis will stay here and take care of Stronghold while we’re gone, of course. But everyone else will come along.”

  Sioned took pity on the boy. “Feylin will be with us, naturally, but I think Sionell and Jahnavi will want to stay here with their father. It’s a very long ride, even when one has a new pony.”

  Pol nodded, trying not to show his relief and failing utterly. “It’s too bad they’ll have to miss seeing the dragons,” he said, able to be generous now that he knew his pest would not be joining them.

  Rohan wore a thoughtful expression. “I think it’s about time I expanded your education, Pol. I’ve taught you to ride, how to win a knife-fight, and the basics of swordsmanship, and Lleyn has said he’s pleased with your progress in all three. But now I’m going to teach you something else that will come in very useful.” All at once he grinned. “I’m going to show you how to beat a woman at chess.”

  “Brave words, my lord dragon prince,” Sioned scoffed. “Bring the board and set, Pol, and watch me trounce him for the twentieth time this year!”

  “And it’s only twenty days into spring,” Pol said impishly, running to get the chessboard and pieces.

  Rohan set the game up on the carpet, Pol sitting at his side. Sunlight burnished the two fair heads, shone on identical smiles. Even the gesture of brushing the hair off their necks was the same. Pol’s coloring was a little stronger than Rohan’s, his hair and lashes a shade or two darker, his eyes glinting green as well as blue. But there was nothing of Ianthe in him, nothing to remind Sioned of the princess who had birthed him.

  Opening gambits completed, she surveyed the board and confided to Pol, “He’ll try to trick me into a mistake now. Just watch.”

  “Would I do that to you?” Rohan asked, eyes wide with injured innocence.

  “Every chance you can get.”

  “You’re using Grandmother Milar’s defense, aren’t you, Mother? Maarken taught it to Meath, and he taught it to me.”

  “She loved chess and played very well,” Sioned replied. “Andrade was the only one who could win against her very often. And stop trying to distract me, hatchling,” she added, making a face at him. He laughed and she knew she had been forgiven the con tretemps of his arrival.

  “Mind you,” Rohan said, “she’s a terrible loser.”

  “They way I’ve heard it, she hasn’t had much practice at losing,” Pol answered with a grin. “And it doesn’t look as if you’ll be teaching her how this time, Father!”

  “Oh, so now it’s compliments to lull me into complacency!” Sioned reached over and tweaked Pol’s ear.

  Rohan moved a piece on the board. “Remember, my boy, the main thing about playing chess with a woman is always let her win—even after you’ve married her.”

  “Let me win—?” She launched a playful fist at his jaw. He caught her wrist, tugged, and succeeded in toppling her to one side of the chessboard. Sioned went for his ribs, knowing every vulnerable spot in his body. The chess pieces went flying and Pol yelled, “Forfeit!” as the three of them tumbled around on the carpet, laughing and tickling. Sioned’s hair came loose from its pins and Rohan grabbed the thick braid, pulling her down for a kiss. Then they both went after their son. Captured, Pol squirmed helplessly with laughter.

  “Well, now,” said an amused voice from the doorway. “Is it a castle revolution, I wonder? Bets on the winner, Maarken?”

  “Pol,” the young man said at once. “Chadric teaches dirty tricks in unarmed combat, Mother.”

  The royal trio sorted themselves out and sat up, still laughing. Rohan grinned up at Maarken and Tobin. “Always bet on the younger man—especially when he’s your future prince!”

  “It’s only good politics,” Maarken agreed, chuckling, and helped Sioned to her feet.

  She thanked him and tried to make some order out of her hair. “Are you just going to sit there?” she inquired of her husband. “Pick yourself up and at least pretend to a little princely dignity.”

  “Make it a good show,” Tobin advised. “I’ve come to announce the Fironese ambassador.”

  Rohan groaned and shook his head. “She wasn’t due for another day, according to their Sunrunner.”

  “Lady Eneida is right behind me, brother dear.”

  Maarken and Pol searched for the scattered chess pieces while Tobin replaced the board and righted an overturned chair. Rohan and Sioned tidied each other up, then grabbed their son on his way by and performed the same service for him. They slid into seats, Maarken standing behind his mother’s chair as was proper for a young lord in the presence of his princes, just as a knock sounded on the door.

  “Come,” Rohan said, raking his hand one last time through his hair.

  The Fironese ambassador was a thin dark woman aged somewhere between forty and seventy. She was as cool and brittle as the crystal for which her land was famous, but there the resemblance ended; the airy grace of Fironese fantasies in glass was utterly lacking in her. Fragile as she seemed, there was something stolid about her, and though Rohan’s casual court saved her from being further weighted down by stiff formal robes, her woolen gown had been made for the colder climate of Firon and her brow was slightly damp as she made her bows before the High Prince, the High Princess, and the heir.

  “It is generous of you to receive me in private, your grace,” she said to Rohan.

  “Exceeded by your generosity in making the long journey from Firon in such haste,” he responded. “Please, my lady, sit and be comfortable.”

  As Maarken placed a chair for her, she murmured her thanks and folded her narrow hands in her lap. “Our governing council has sent me to consult with your grace about the unhappy state of our princedom,” she began. “As you know Prince Ajit died without heirs this New Year Holiday.”

  “We had news of his death on
the sunlight, and were grieved,” Rohan said. He remembered very well the prince who, at Rohan’s first tumultuous Rialla, had openly doubted his ability to understand even the basics of government. He had never held it against Ajit; indeed, he had been grateful for the expressions of misgivings, for it had been a tribute to his acting skills. Borderline idiocy had been precisely the impression he’d wished to create, the better to cozen Roelstra into concessions. Everyone knew better by now, of course.

  Lady Eneida continued, “The days since his grace’s death have not been easy. We have been in constant receipt of . . . suggestions . . . from other princes.”

  “I am aware of them. How does your council view them?”

  She condescended to give him a frosty smile. “With suspicion, as you may well imagine, my lord.”

  “Indeed,” Tobin murmured.

  “Most of these suggestions concern bloodlines, both real and imaginary. And thus they concern your graces.” She included Sioned and Pol in her glance now.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Sioned commented. “I’m not sufficiently informed about princely genealogy, Lady Eneida.”

  “That is not surprising, your grace, as the point is a rather obscure one. The High Prince’s grandmother was a daughter of our Prince Gavran, who also had two sisters—who married the ruling princes of Dorval and Kierst.”

  Tobin leaned a little forward in her chair. “Thus there are four possible heirs to Firon—the sons of Volog of Kierst, the sons of Davvi of Syr, the grandsons of Lleyn of Dorval, and my nephew, Prince Pol.”

  The ambassador inclined her head in tribute to Tobin’s succinct summation. “The Desert claim is stronger, coming through the High Prince and also through High Princess Sioned’s connection with the Kierstian royal line.”

  Rohan was frowning, irritated by his sister’s eagerness. “My lady, you realize that by making my son the heir to Firon, it might mean the disappearance of that land as an independent princedom.”

  She answered with a shrug. “The prospect does not please us overmuch—with all due respect, your grace,” she directed at Pol, who nodded his understanding. “But it is infinitely to be preferred over being swallowed by Cunaxa.”