Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince (48 page)

Rohan and Sioned rejoiced when Eltanin’s gentle Antalya was delivered safely of a strong son. It was a year for childbearing, it seemed; only a few days after news came from Tiglath, Tobin gave birth to twin boys and at the beginning of summer Camigwen presented the astounded Ostvel with a son. But for the prince and princess, there was no similar happy event.

The next year brought rumors that Ianthe had borne one son and was carrying another. The garrison below Feruche confirmed the rumors, and the procession of handsome young noblemen through Ianthe’s bed made it impossible for anyone to determine exactly who had fathered the children. Rohan made a sour comment that nothing less could be expected of Roelstra’s favorite daughter. Everyone wondered if the High Prince would name one of her sons as his heir. None of the other daughters had married, nor were they likely to.

Word came often on the sunlight from Goddess Keep, where Chiana thrived and Pandsala gradually accepted her lot, though sullenly, to be sure. Andrade reported the startling fact of
faradhi
potential in the princess and theorized that Roelstra’s long-dead wife Lallante had carried the talent. Roelstra’s own line was as barren of the gift as he was of sons.

And then it was another
Rialla
Year, a dragon year. The princes packed up their ancient maps and treaties in preparation for showing precedent for the lands they held—or wished to hold; Clutha and Jervis rejected a score of schemes for a Lastday banquet even more spectacular than that of the previous
Rialla
; Rohan and Sioned waited for the dragons to appear in the sky and nurtured the secret hope that this time she would carry their recently conceived child to term. The Merida were quiet; nothing was heard of Ianthe at Feruche; the High Prince was silent at Castle Crag.

But with the coming of the dragons, there also came a plague. It swept across the continent, ravaging the human population, making the summer of 701 a season of death from the Long Sand to the Dark Water.

And the dragons died by the hundreds.

Rohan leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply. His gaze strayed from the parchments on the desk to the tall, wide-open windows of his private study. Stronghold was secure and serene in the spring twilight, its stone gentled by a rosy-gold light from the setting sun. The scents of new flowers and fresh grass drifted up from the gardens; he could even smell the grotto waterfall, swollen by spring runoff from the distant hills. The annual renewal of beauty here was justification of the peace he had worked so hard to create, and its seduction was nearly overwhelming. In the last six years there had been so few times when he could truly enjoy his home.

Delivery of Feylin’s troublesome message had come with another stack of parchments, and Rohan eyed the pile with a grimace. The
Rialla
would happen this year, the first since his portrayal of imbecile prince—an option no longer available to him—and his vassals had presented their requests with almost indecent haste. He could not in good conscience “forget” about them until late summer, and he certainly could not ignore the news from Skybowl. But Goddess, how he wanted to, just for a little while.

A wry smile crossed his face as he reflected on the truth that a prince with too much leisure was a prince who was not doing his job. Even in the good years there were a million things to be done and decided and overseen. And in the bad years, like the year of the Plague—

So many dead. So much lost. Crushing the Merida in the plains outside Tiglath that first spring of his rule had demonstrated his strength, but there had been no fighting the silent, stealthy disease. The power of a prince with an army at his back had been impotent against the enemy that invaded the body and took away breath, sanity, and life in hopeless progression.

It had come with the flight of dragons three years ago, and at first had been blamed on the great beasts themselves. As Plague and panic spread throughout the princedoms, demands had come for Rohan to eradicate the dragons once and for all. But then the dragons had started dying, too.

By the time the first huge, stinking corpse had been discovered in the sand without a battle wound on it, Rohan had been too desperate to worry about dragon deaths. His mother had been one of the first at Stronghold to contract the Plague, and the first to die. The disease swelled the lungs and burned the flesh from agonized bones; fever raged unchecked no matter what cures were tried. Violent purging, coma, and death followed. Princess Milar’s struggles had lasted for twelve horrible days. Others had survived a little longer, but of every ten persons at Stronghold, four fell sick—and all of these died.

Word filtered in from other courts and holdings, communicated by
faradh’im
who often used their last strength to weave the terrible news through the sunlight. Princes Seldeen, Durriken, and Vissarion; Lords Daar, Kuteyn, Dalinor, Bethoc, and Reze; wives and sons and daughters and countless retainers—all dead. Andrade herself sent the sorrowful news that Mardeem of the pure golden voice had succumbed at Goddess Keep along with scores of others. No castle, manor, or cottage was immune, with the exceptions of the isolated Merida in their wilderness and the islands of Dorval and Kierst-Isel. Prince Lleyn had forbidden his harbors to all ships, and Volog and Saumer had wisely followed his example. Indeed, in the latter case the Plague proved a perverse sort of blessing. Deprived of outside sustenance, the two antagonists were forced to cooperate with each other so their people did not starve.

Then the miracle happened. In midsummer, word flashed on the sunlight that a cure had been found. An infusion of a little-known herb, combined with more standard remedies, reduced the fever and stopped the purging, which gave the victims a chance at life.

Rohan’s fingers clenched around the arms of his chair and he consciously relaxed them. Memory of that time could still send fury pounding through his blood. The herb had been
dranath.
Roelstra, controlling its source in the Veresch, controlled its dispersal. Not openly, of course, for that would have brought all the other princes raging across his borders, High Prince or no High Prince. He had doled out the precious herb through his merchants, and made a colossal profit trading on desperation.

Rohan’s gaze went to the tapestry map hanging from gold rods on the far wall. A bitter smile lifted the corner of his mouth. Roelstra’s slowness in providing the drug had rid the High Prince of several opponents and weakened many princedoms. The map was a chilling reminder of how many rulers had died and how vulnerable their lands now were. Rohan knew in his bones that Roelstra had purposely held back shipments of
dranath
to Gilad, which had lost its most powerful
athri
as well as its ruling prince. In the cities of Einar and Waes, the holdings of Snowcoves, Kadar Water, and Catha Heights, death had claimed lords who had not been sympathetic to the High Prince.

Weakening the structure of power had been an unexpected bonus for Roelstra; all he needed to do was delay providing
dranath
until word came that those he wanted dead
were
dead. To the obscene amounts of money in his treasury he had added opportunities for mischief in too many places. It afforded Rohan little pleasure that the scheme had not worked in the Desert—but only through the Goddess’ gracious blessing.

Rohan had emptied his coffers and the drug had seeped through to Radzyn port, where Chaynal had sent out riders on his swiftest horses to distribute the life-saving
dranath.
Too late to keep death from claiming Milar, Camigwen, and Chay’s son Jahni, still it had come in time to spare countless others.

And then the dragons had started dying, and there was no more money left to buy
dranath,
and who would be fool enough to want to save the dragons?

Lord Farid had sent word from Skybowl that healthy dragons had been sighted in his hills. Rohan journeyed there. Together he and Farid had come up with the idea of lacing the bittersweet plants on the cliffs with
dranath
as a preventative. It was the only hope they had. Yet there was no drug to spare, and large amounts were necessary if even these few dragons were to be saved. Rohan had faced the unsavory choice of either demanding every coin his vassals possessed or striking a bargain with Roelstra.

A soft knock at the door turned the prince’s head. “Yes, come in,” he called, and a moment later was looking at Walvis’ disapproving face. “I know, I know,” Rohan said before his former squire could speak. “I missed the noon meal and I’m about to be late for dinner, and my lady wife will have me roasted with her own Fire.” He smiled and pushed himself to his feet, gathering up the loose pages of Feylin’s report.

“She wouldn’t waste her energy, my lord,” Walvis said severely. “There’s not enough flesh on you to interest even a starving dragon.”

Rohan shrugged and locked the report away in a coffer. Replacing the key on a long chain around his neck, he stretched widely and went over to the windows. Walvis joined him. At the age of seventeen, Walvis’ freckles now competed for notice with a proud stubble of beard. Elevated last winter from squire to knight, he had begged to be allowed to stay on at Stronghold and serve Rohan in whatever capacity the prince desired. Rohan had been more than glad to keep him. Walvis was learning the ins and outs of stewardship from Ostvel these days, and the routine duties of squire had been delegated to another boy, Sioned’s nephew Tilal. Lord Dawi had been only too happy to claim blood-bond with the powerful prince his sister had so unexpectedly married, and several times his wife had attempted to invite herself to Stronghold. Sioned had resisted the invasion, knowing Lady Wisla would ask favors that Rohan, loving and honoring Sioned, would not refuse. At last she had come up with the perfect solution: she would take her youngest nephew into her household. It was part of a squire’s training to be completely separated from his family until he was knighted, and Sioned was thus neatly freed from any further importunities. Her sister-by-marriage had been faint with the honor of having her son educated in a prince’s suite, and stayed happily at River Run, boasting to everyone she knew.

Shouts came from the gardens below, and Rohan saw Tilal come running along a path, tripping over a cloak much too large for him. Racing after him with a wooden sword in his hand was Ostvel’s boy, Riyan. Tilal went down with a realistic flutter of wings as Riyan wielded his sword against the “dragon.” Both boys rolled on the grass, laughing uproariously.