Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince (36 page)

All at once it occurred to her that perhaps Andrade had counted on exactly that.

The concept stunned her. The Lady was wily, manipulative, ambitious, and arrogant, yet she could not intend for Sioned to ignore all traditional restraints on the use of
faradhi
power. Surely she could not be that cruel, to make Sioned responsible.

But maybe she was. Maybe in making a princess of a trained Sunrunner, she had calculated that the gifts would become partisan ones, that Sioned would break the vows for the sake of her prince. Andrade could not have ordered such a thing, nor said outright that she expected it of Sioned. But, abruptly, it made sense. Andrade had said nothing, but Sioned suddenly realized what was being asked of her. Not merely to create a son who would be prince and Sunrunner as well—but to create the new rules by which her son would live.

And Rohan—what would he ask of her? Could she trust his wisdom to keep her from having to make the choice again and again? She trembled inside the heavy fur, knowing that she had made her choice: Rohan. And for him she would do whatever she had to, as
faradhi
and princess.

As she sat under rainy branches there was yet one thing that puzzled her until the obvious answer occurred to her. The princes would be livid when they found out Andrade intended to marry one of her Sunrunners to a prince. But they did not yet know, thanks to Rohan’s little scheme with Roelstra’s daughters. Wiping rain from her face, she smiled with grim anticipation of the uproar. If they disliked
that
event, they’d have fits when the children were born.

Sioned was unaware of those who watched her from the meager shelter of other trees. Walvis was nearly invisible, shivering in a cloak wrapping him from nose to boots. Meath
was
invisible to both squire and Sunrunner, whom he had been following since Hildreth warned him of Sioned’s restlessness. He told himself that if she wanted to be alone to think, she could at least have picked a nice, dry tent instead of wandering all over the countryside. Muttering a curse under his breath, he huddled closer to his tree.

Rohan was at that moment cursing himself for inflicting his more radical ideas on unsuspecting princes. Despite the rain, the conference continued—if one could dignify the current argument by that polite term. Rohan had made a serious error, inexcusable even by his weariness. He had not slept after Ianthe had left him, and had come very close to seeking out Sioned for satisfaction of desires the princess had aroused. The very idea had disgusted him. Still, he had not closed his eyes until dawn, for as he considered Ianthe’s actions, he worried more about their implications. To put the finish to his discomfort, rain made him nervous right down to his Desert-bred bones. But a prince could make no excuses for his mistakes, not even to himself. Rohan, listening to the conflict that raged around him, wished he’d kept his stupid mouth shut.

He had begun well enough. In innocent tones he had put forth the suggestion that it would be useful for him to know what his borders were. He really did need to know, after all, exactly what he was prince of. His intention had been obvious enough even for a dull-witted prince like Saumer of Isel. The Merida attack had again prompted the question of rights to certain Desert lands—with Roelstra doing the prompting—and Rohan wanted to define what belonged to him—and, more importantly, what no longer belonged to his enemies. The princes did not realize that his true goals were more subtle. With everyone agreed on what he owned, failure of the Merida to remove themselves from Desert land would give Rohan the legal excuse he needed for invasion. No other prince would dare aid the Merida while Rohan was engaged in recovering what had been decided was his. But, more far-reaching than this, he knew that stable government required stable borders. He had intended to start by proposing distinct boundaries for his own lands, and then in future years encourage other princes to do the same. But they had leaped ahead to things Rohan had hoped to save for the next
Rialla.
He had not counted on the fierce rivalry between Princes Saumer and Volog. They shared their island in an uneasy truce that had never come within shouting distance of real peace, and their borders fluctuated yearly. When Rohan proposed precise definition of his own lands, they had seized on the concept like dragons discovering an unprotected deer.

“What shall set the precedent?” Roelstra had injected into the discussion, and the battle had begun.

Everyone had a precedent. Everyone’s great-great-grandsire had had a precedent. That was what territorial wars were all about. Rohan condemned himself for a fool, because another war seemed ready to break out right now. But he had no one other than himself to blame for this.

Yet as he glanced toward the High Prince, wondering why Roelstra did not intervene to settle this, he learned something very interesting. Roelstra actually wanted them at each other’s throats. The conflict between Saumer and Volog had ignited the same kind of argument between the princes of Firon and Fessenden. And though Roelstra’s face was composed into serious lines, his eyes were laughing. Their disunity was his goal and his delight. Divisiveness was the key to his personal power.

Rohan sat back in his chair, chewing his lip. He had never realized before how Roelstra kept the princes doing pretty much what he wanted. Now he understood. They fought among themselves, encouraged by the High Prince, who waited until factions were ready to tear each other to shreds before proposing some compromise that would see both sides indebted to him for the settlement. And Roelstra would call it “peacemaking.”

Rohan stared down at his hands to hide the disgust he knew must be in his eyes. He wanted only to claim what was his and nurture it in real peace. Care, caution, and cooperation coaxed the Desert into bloom; his vassals had to work in concert to survive, pushing aside their petty differences. It was not the same in richer lands. There was little work involved in bringing forth fruit and flowers from Princemarch or Ossetia or Kierst-Isel. The rulers of those lands had time for other things, and for many years Roelstra had seen to it that their energies had been wasted in quarrels. All that time, all those resources, all that power of mind and wealth—and it had been squandered. Rohan felt as angry at the waste as if he had caught someone purposely draining precious water from the cisterns at Stronghold.

Government was the fine art of coordination. Rule was the subtle and divisive art of power. What Rohan wanted most—peace by rule of laws understood by all—Roelstra would work to prevent with all his might. Rohan understood that now. More, he understood Ianthe’s desperation which had driven her to him last night. She had seen the chance of gaining power through him, and it was the only thing she had ever learned how to want. She had only her father’s example of waste and treachery to learn from.

Suddenly he thought of Sioned, and his heart ached. He himself had played at Roelstra’s game of divisiveness without even knowing it, setting Sioned against the princesses the way Roelstra set the princes against each other while he sat back and enjoyed the show. Rohan had even pitted his own heart against what his mind had made him think was so very clever. But he could not live that way. He needed Sioned beside him—openly, honestly, freely. He saw himself now as an arrogant child who had played the wrong game and hurt not only her but himself in the process.

He became aware that Prince Lleyn was watching him. The faded blue eyes smiled knowingly for a moment, and then the old man got to his feet.

“My lords,” he said; then, more loudly, “My lords!” They settled down. “I congratulate Prince Rohan on his excellent if revolutionary idea. But I suggest that without maps and documentation, we’re wasting our time.”

“Can you solve our problems, cousin?” Roelstra asked smoothly.

“I believe so. We must apply to Lady Andrade.”

“For what?” Saumer asked, a world of suspicion in two syllables.

“Not for a ruling, certainly,” Lleyn reassured him. “But before the next
Rialla
she might be persuaded to organize land claims so everyone will know where everyone else stands—literally. I suggest that we save the drawing of borders until three years hence, and search our archives for proper precedent.”

“I approve,” the High Prince said. “Your words are wise, as ever. In fact, I am inspired by them to suggest something else rather new. I propose that until we have all agreed on our borders, that things as they stand now be considered the legitimate boundaries of our lands, to be revised as necessary in three years’ time. I further propose that any prince who attacks another be swiftly punished by the rest of us.”

Saumer frowned. “Let me understand this, Roelstra. If, say, Haldor attacks Chale over a few square measures that are in dispute—”

“Then I would be there with all my armies as soon as I could to defend Prince Haldor’s rights. And those of us on the border of Meadowlord or Syr—Prince Rohan, for instance—would come to Haldor’s defense as well. It would take much of the profit out of war, and we could cease spending our substance on useless wars.”

“I like it,” Ajit of Firon declared.

“So do I,” said Saumer, with an eye on Volog, who smiled.

“May I speak?” Rohan heard himself say.

“Please do, cousin,” Roelstra replied graciously.

“I think that Prince Lleyn should be the ultimate arbiter of any serious disputes. These are not matters for Lady Andrade to decide, and on his island Lleyn has little interest in who owns what on the continent.”

“Are you agreeable to this proposal, Lleyn?”

The old man bowed to the High Prince. “I shall do myself the honor of accepting the task.”

Sanity at last
, Rohan thought gratefully.

“I hope,” Roelstra went on, “that we will be able to work out differences between ourselves without bothering Lleyn.” The hint was not missed by a single man present, not even Saumer.

“And now, my lords, we deserve a rest. Prince Vissarion has kindly provided refreshment in his tent. We meet back here this afternoon.”

Rohan escaped from the close atmosphere of the violet tent and drew up the hood of his cloak against the rain. The morning had not been quite the disaster he’d feared at one point, but there were many things he had to think through. He needed privacy, and there was none to be found in his own camp. At Stronghold he could have disappeared for hours as he chose, but where could a prince hide at the
Rialla
?

He went down to the river, hoping no one else would venture out in the rain for a stroll, and from the corner of his eye caught sight of Meath slinking around the trees on the opposite shore. He supposed he ought to be reassured by the zeal of those who watched over him, but the constant surveillance annoyed him, too. Briefly he considered making a game of it, trying to outwit the
faradhi
, but the dutiful portion of him forbade it. He would be an idiot to go off alone without escort, what with the Merida possibly roaming around.

Rohan finally saw the perfect place for privacy: the steps leading up to the bridge. He felt a little foolish as he slid beneath them and hunkered down out of the rain, but Meath could think what he liked. He drew his cloak more tightly around him—like a dragon with wings folded against the rain, he told himself with a grin. The wooden planks above leaked a little, and he shifted around to find a spot where he wouldn’t get dripped on, finally settling down snug and hidden from prying eyes.

The morning had not been so bad, he reflected, though Roelstra’s suggestion about mutual aid and defense troubled him. The possibilities for mischief were endless. He set himself to thinking as the High Prince might—something far too easy for his peace of mind—and the scenes that played out in his head were far from reassuring. Any attack, no matter who arranged it, would compel the other princes into punitive action. Questions would come only later—
if
the fighting stopped. For there were factions among the princes that would not vanish in the face of any treaty.
Athr’im
picked fights with each other all the time, more often than not on the orders of their princes, who usually kept out of the actual battles. Rohan’s own father had used the tactic often enough, though he had loved fighting and was always in the thick of any minor war. Rohan, however, had no intention of living that way.

But he could easily imagine a force of mercenaries laying siege to a keep and placing the blame on someone else. High Prince Roelstra could march through in the attacked prince’s defense—and work whatever damage he cared to inflict. By the time everything had been sorted out, no one would be certain what had happened.

Still, perhaps everyone would think twice now about making war. Localized conflicts were one thing; major wars were to no one’s profit. Rohan shrugged, knowing that all he could do was hope for the best.

He felt better about his own proposal of legal borders. Not for nothing had he gone over every document in Stronghold’s archives. He already knew what was legally his—not only regarding the Merida, but along his borders with Syr, Princemarch, Meadowlord, and Cunaxa as well. He would have to give up a farm or two, but he would also gain substantial properties in return. In all his vast holdings, he could afford to cede a little in exchange for undisputed right to the rest of it. The vassals involved would have to be appeased, of course, now that they were going to own the land, but thanks to his father he had money enough to soothe the loss of a few square measures here and there.

What a dragon’s egg he had cracked today, he thought with a smile. The princes would go mad rummaging around for old treaties and the surveys made by
faradh’im
long ago. In their searching they would, without even realizing it, come to value the precedent of law. With luck and a push here and there, he could persuade them to extend that belief to other things.

Footsteps sounded on the bridge above him, returning from the other bank, and for a moment he thought it must be Meath. But the steps were too light to belong to the big Sunrunner. As the person descended to the gravel shore, curiosity got the better of him. He peeked out from his shelter and with complete delight recognized the girl wrapped in a cloak much too short for her.