Melanie Rawn - Dragon Prince 1 - Dragon Prince

PART ONE

Faces in Fire

Chapter One

Prince Zehava squinted into the sunlight and smiled his satisfaction. All the

signs were good for the hunt today: claw marks on the cliffs, wing marks on

the sand, and the close cropping of bittersweet plants along the canyon

ridges. But the prince's perceptions were more subtle and had no need of these

obvious signs. He could feel the presence of his prey all along his skin,

scent it in the air, sense it in every nerve. His admirers said he could tell

when the time was ripe for the hunt simply by glancing at the sky. His enemies

said it was not surprising that he could sense such things, for he himself had

been dragon-spawned.

In truth, he seemed a human version of the dragon he hunted today. A long,

proud nose reared out of a lean and predatory face, saved from ruthlessness by

the humor lurking at the corners of his mouth. Nearly sixty winters had framed

his eyes with deep lines, but his body was still tough and supple, his pose in

the saddle easy, his back straight as his sword. The proudest of old dragons

was Zehava, a cloak as black as his eyes billowing out behind him like wings

as he rode a tall black war-horse into the Desert he had ruled for thirty-four

winters.

"We advance, my prince?"

Zehava glanced at his son-by-marriage. "We advance," he replied in the time-

honored formula, then grinned. "We most certainly advance, Chay, unless your

sword arm is already growing tired."

The young man grinned back. "The only time it ever did was when we fought the

Merida, and then only a little, and only because you kept tossing so many in

my direction!"

"Tobin wanted to boast of your prowess, and I've sever been able to deny my

daughter anything." He pressed his heels to the horse's ribs and the troop

advanced into the Desert behind him, bridles muffled and saddles devoid of the

usual trappings that might clatter a warning to the dragon.

"Another ten measures, I make it," Chaynal said. "Five."

"Ten! That son of the Storm Devil will be holed up in the hills and strike

from there."

"Five," Zehava said again. "And he'll be at the mouth of Rivenrock like High

Prince Roelstra at Castle Crag." Chaynal's handsome face pulled into a

grimace. "And here I was enjoying myself. Why did you have to mention him?"

Zehava laughed. Inwardly, however, he was wishing that this fine young man was

truly the son of his body, his heir. He felt much closer to Chay than he did

to his blood son, Prince Rohan—a slight, quiet youth given to study and

thoughtfulness rather than devotion to the manly arts. Rohan was a credible

swordsman, an excellent hunter of everything but dragons, and a cunning

whirlwind in a knife fight, but Zehava found his son incomprehensible in that

these things were not the end and aim of life to him. Rohan's taste for books

and learned discussion was utterly beyond Zehava's understanding. Honesty

compelled him to admit that Chaynal had interests other than the hunt and the

skirmish, but at least he did not prefer those other things to all else. Yet

when Zehava attempted to press Rohan into other activities, his own wife and

daughter flew at him like furious she-dragons.

Zehava grinned to himself as he rode through the scorching heat toward

Rivenrock Canyon. Tobin should have been born the male child. As a young girl

she had been able to out-ride and out-knife any boy her age. Marriage and

motherhood had calmed her, but she was still capable of black-eyed rages to

match Zehava's own. Part of Chaynal's marriage contract stipulated that she

was forbidden to bring a dagger into their bedchamber. Chay's idea of a joke,

of course, which had brought

howls of laughter from everyone—including Tobin—but it added to the family

legend, which was something Zehava despaired of Rohan ever doing.

Not that Tobin was lacking in femininity, he mused, glancing at Chaynal again.

Only a completely enchanting woman could have captured and held the fiery

young Lord of Radzyn Keep. After six years of marriage and the birth of twin

sons, the princess and her lord were as besotted with each other as ever. A

pity Rohan hadn't yet found himself a girl to stiffen his spine and his

manhood. There was nothing like the desire to impress a pretty girl to turn

boy into man.

Zehava's prediction proved accurate: the dragon had chosen the lookout spire

at the canyon mouth for his perch. The hunt paused a full measure away to

admire the beast, dark gold as the sands that had hatched him, with a wingspan

greater than the height of three tall men. His malignant glare could be felt

even at this distance.

"A real grandsire of a beast," Chay murmured appreciatively. "Have a care, my

prince."

Zehava took the caution as it had been intended, not as a warning that he

might lose this contest, but as a reminder not to damage himself during it. If

he came home with more than a few scratches, his wife would alternately coddle

his injuries and rage at his clumsiness in acquiring them. Princess Milar was

as legendary for her temper as for the golden looks, so rare here in the

Desert, that she had passed on to her son.

The twenty riders fanned out, taking up positions according to the etiquette

of the game, and Zehava rode forward alone. The dragon eyed him balefully, and

the prince smiled. This was a profoundly angry beast. The stench of oil was

rank in the hot air, oozing from glands at the base of the long, spiked tail.

He was ready to mate the females hidden in their caves, and anyone who

distracted him from his purpose was marked for a painful death,

"Hot for it, aren't you, Devil-jaws?" Zehava crooned low in his throat. He

rode at a steady pace, his cloak blowing back from his shoulders, and stopped

half a measure in front of the rocky spire. Striated sandstone in

a dozen shades of amber and garnet rose like the Flametower at Zehava's castle

of Stronghold. The dragon clung to the stone with claws thick as a man's

wrist, balance easily kept despite the repeated lashings of the gold-and-black

patterned tail. The two rulers of the Desert sized each other up. On the

surface it was a ludicrously unequal contest: the massive, dagger-toothed

dragon against one man on horseback. But Zehava had an advantage that had made

him the champion in such encounters nine times before, more than any man

living and part of the family legend. Zehava understood dragons.

This one burned to fill his dozen or more females, but he was growing old and

knew it. There were battle scars on the dark golden hide, and one talon hung

at an unnatural angle, damaged in some earlier combat. As the great wings

unfurled threateningly, showing the velvety black undersides, badly healed

tears were visible as well as crooked wingbones that had not remeshed properly

after breaking. This might be the dragon's last mating, and Zehava suspected

that the beast knew it.

Nevertheless, he was capable of giving the prince a good long battle. But

Zehava understood something else about dragons. Though notoriously cunning,

they were entirely single-minded. This one wanted to mate. His fighting style

would thus be direct and unsubtle, without the tricks a dragon used once

mating was over for another three years. He had already been inhaling the

stench of his own sexuality for days during the preliminaries— the sand-dance

and the cliff-dance that had attracted his females to him. His brain was

drugged now and his fighting wits would be dulled, for his one purpose was to

seed his females and this made him at once more vicious and more vulnerable.

Though Zehava had a healthy respect for those talons and teeth, he could also

grin in his anticipation of a tenth triumph. He was going to out-think this

grandsire dragon, and have a rousing good time doing it.

Fifty measures distant, in a fortress that had been carved out of solid rock

by successive generations of Zehava's family, Princess Milar sat with her

sister Lady

Andrade. The two were silent for the present; the entrance of a servant into

the solar with cool drinks and fruit had interrupted a stormy passage between

the twin sisters on the subject of Prince Rohan.

When the servant had bowed and departed, Lady Andrade flicked her long blonde

braid back over her shoulder and glared at her sister. "Stop fussing the boy!

Things are brewing in Roelstra's court that Zehava can't hope to understand,

but Rohan will!"

"Are you calling my husband a fool?" Milar snapped.

"Save your theatrics, Mila. He's a brilliant soldier and a fine man, but if

you think the coming conflict will be one of arms, think again. The Storm God

alone knows what Roelstra's planning, but it won't be something to march an

army against." She reached over and plucked a bunch of grapes from a bowl,

subjecting their ruby gloss to a critical inspection. "You may think your

princedom too rich and powerful to be threatened. But the High Prince is

constitutionally incapable of abiding anyone richer than he. And Zehava hasn't

been exactly subtle about his wealth. I heard about the birthday present he

sent Roelstra."

"It was entirely in keeping with—"

"With Zehava's conceit! Two horses or even four, nicely caparisoned, would

have been fine. But twenty! And all in silver! He's flaunting his riches,

Mila, and that's dangerous—like this imbecile dragon hunt today. He's killed

nine of the monsters, why does he need a tenth?"

Princess Milar wore an expression before which scores of highborns had

quailed; her face was none the less lovely for its icy hauteur. "It's his duty

to rid the Desert of dragons. It also demonstrates the cunning and strength

which are so important in war. That's politics."

"That's stupidity. Better he should have sent Rohan out to kill this dragon,

so his heir's cunning and strength are made clear." Andrade popped a grape

into her mouth and split the skin with her teeth, drawing off the sweet juices

before spitting out the remains into a silver bowl provided for the purpose.

"Rohan has no heart for fighting dragons," Milar admitted unhappily.

"But he's warrior enough with heart enough," Andrade pointed out. "Dressing in

common trooper's uniform that last campaign against the Merida when you'd

forbidden him to leave Stronghold—"

"We've never worried about his spirit. But you know he spends too much time at

his books and talking with the most unlikely people. I've defended him in the

past, but now I'm beginning to agree with Zehava. Rohan ought to learn how to

be the kind of prince his forefathers were."

"That's precisely what he doesn't need to learn! Building a princedom is fine

work for a soldier, and Zehava's done very well. He consolidated what his

grandfather began, strengthened his hold on what his father grabbed from the

Merida, and enlarged the whole through his own efforts. Actually," Andrade

said in thoughtful tones, "one can't blame him for wanting to show off. He's

worked wonders, especially against the Merida."

"If I required a history lesson, I would send for my bard," Milar snapped.

Andrade ignored her remark. "Zehava's problem is that he's run out of things

to do. All he can think of is to spend money on you and Tobin and this pile of

rock we're sitting in—and to waste his time killing dragons. Believe me,

sister dear, Roelstra can think of many occupations for his own time, and none

of them healthy as far as you're concerned."

"I fail to see—"

"You usually do," Andrade interrupted. "Let Rohan read his books and talk with

the ambassadors—yes, and even with the servants of the ambassadors! He'll

learn things that Zehava could never teach him."

"Why don't you go back to your duties in that moldy old keep of yours, and

leave the work of the world to the people who can do it?"

"What do you think I do in my moldy old keep— knit?" Andrade snorted and

picked out another fat grape. "While I'm training silly boys and girls to be

good faradh'im, I listen to them. And what I hear these days

isn't pleasant, Mila." She began ticking off points on her long, slender

fingers, each one circled by a gold or silver nng with a different gemstone.

The rings were linked by tiny chains across the backs of her palms to the

bracelets of her office as Lady of Goddess Keep. "One, Roelstra doesn't plan

to make war against anyone, so Zehava's show of strength and skill in hunting

dragons counts for nothing. Two, the High Prince has agents in every court—

including yours."

"Impossible!" Milar scoffed.

"Your wine steward has a nasty look about him, and I wouldn't vouch for your

assistant stablemaster, either. Three, the High Prince has seventeen

daughters, some of them legitimate off poor, dead Lallante. All of them need

husbands. Where will Roelstra find eligible men for them? I'll tell you where:

from the most important courts, even for the bastard girls."

The princess sat up straight on the blue velvet lounge. "Do you mean an offer

might come for Rohan?"

"Good for you!" Andrade exclaimed in a voice that dnpped sarcasm. "Yes, an

offer will be made. Can you think of a more eligible young man than your son?

He's rich, of the noblest blood, he'll rule this wasteland someday—which,

though not a recommendation in itself, does imply a certain amount of power.

And he's not all that difficult to look at."

"My son is the handsomest young man on the continent!" Milar defended. "He's

perfectly beautiful and I—"

"And a perfect virgin?"

Milar shrugged. "Zehava says you can tell a woman from a maiden just by the

way she walks, but I've never heard of a similar test for boys. But what does

it matter? It's the prince's bride who should come virgin to the marriage bed,

not the prince himself."

"I only wanted to know if he's heart-whole. He's not the type to spread every

pair of female thighs he can find just for the fun of it. Rohan's the romantic

kind, poor thing." She mused on this for a moment, then sighed. "In any case,

an offer will be made regarding one of the legitimate princesses, because a

bastard would be an insult to your house, and—"

"But that's wonderful!" Milar's blue eyes shone beneath the sunsilk of her

hair. "The honor of it—and the dowry! We must be sure to ask for Feruche

Castle. Rohan couldn't do better than a daughter of the High Prince!"

"Mila, think. You'll be allied to Roelstra by marriage—"

"I have thought! He would hardly attack his daughter's husband!"

"Listen to me! Rohan and his princess will have sons who will one day rule the

Desert. What would be more natural than for the grandson of the High Prince to

annex his holdings to his beloved grandsire's?"

"Never! The Treaty of Linse gives the Desert to Zehava's family for as long as

the sands spawn fire."

"Very pretty. A direct quote, I take it? But the Desert will continue to

belong to Zehava's family through Rohan. It will also belong to Roelstra's,

through the daughter he sends as Rohan's bride. The High Prince is only forty-

five this year, Mila. Let me conjure a vision for you."

•The princess' eyes went wide. "No! Andrade, you mustn't! Not here!"

"With words only, sister. Say Rohan marries this girl, whichever one it is. I

can never keep them all straight. Say they have a child within two years.

Roelstra will be forty-seven. Say he lives to be eighty. It's not unlikely.

His grandfather was ninety-three when he died—"

"And his father barely twenty-eight."

"Pathetic age. I've always had my suspicions about that bottle of bad brandy

said to have caused his death. But where was I? Ah, yes. Zehava is sixty this

year and doesn't come of a long-lived clan. Oh, don't go all teary-eyed on me,

Mila. He'll probably prove me a liar just for-spite and live to be a hundred

and thirty-five. But,say something happens to him before the grandsons are

grown. Rohan becomes prince. Say further that something happens to Rohan—and

believe me, my dear, when his sons are past the usual childhood illnesses,

Rohan will be expendable. This leaves us the widowed princess, her sons of ten

or twelve winters—and Roelstra hale and hearty, not even the age Zehava is

right now."

"A ridiculous fantasy!" Milar exclaimed, but shadows were in her eyes.

"If you like. Another conjuring with words. Rohan really becomes unnecessary

once he's fathered a son or two on this girl. With him out of the way and

Zehava as caretaker for the boys until they come of age, Roelstra could let

your husband die in his bed and still do anything he likes once the grandson

inherits."

Lady Andrade applied herself to the grapes and waited for her twin to absorb

the implications. Truly, Andrade had no idea why she bothered with this lovely

lackwit sister of hers. Milar had inherited all the looks in the family,

leaving Andrade to get by on the brains and energy. What was delicate gold in

Milar was ruddy in Andrade; the temper for which both women were well-known

was a flashfire rage in Milar, but carefully calculated in Andrade. Milar was

perfectly happy being wife to a rather remarkable man (Andrade could admit

Zehava's virtues in private), mother to his children, and running his

fortress. Andrade would never have been content with that life. She might have

married a man through whom she could have controlled vast stretches of the

continent, but as Lady of Goddess Keep she ruled more lands indirectly than

even Roelstra. Her faradh'im, commonly called Sunrunners, were everywhere, and

through them she influenced or downright controlled every prince and lord

between the Dark and Sunrise Waters.

She supposed she bothered with Milar because of Rohan. He took after neither

of his parents in personality—nor did he resemble Andrade, so it was not

herself in masculine guise she saw in him. He was unique, and she valued him

for that. Milar loved the boy devotedly, and Zehava was just as fond of Rohan,

though puzzled by him. Andrade alone understood him and had glimpsed what he

might become.

"I see your point, Andri," Milar was saying slowly. "I wish you had explained

it all clearly to begin with. We'll simply have to reject the High Prince's

offer when it comes."

Lady Andrade sighed. "How?" she asked succinctly,

wondering if her sister was entirely the fool she sometimes acted.

The princess' face, scarcely lined even after nearly thirty years in the

harshness of the Desert, wrinkled now in alarm. "An open refusal would be a

horrible insult! Roelstra would be down on us like a dragon on a yearling!"

She fretted silently for a moment, then smiled. "Zehava can win any battle. If

Roelstra dares attack, he'll slink back to Castle-Crag in total defeat!"

"You idiotl" Andrade snarled, totally out of patience. "Have you heard nothing

of what I've said? Didn't you listen to points four, five, and six?"

"I didn't listen because you didn't tell me!" Milar flared. "How can you

expect me to make a decision when you withhold information?"

"Sorry," Andrade muttered. "Very well then, point four—Prince Chale of Ossetia

is in Roelstra's camp with a trade agreement they will make public at the

Rialla this year. Five, Lord Daar of Gilad Seahold needs a wife and wants a

princess. Point six—and for the same reasons— that piece of offal, Prince

Vissarion of Grib, is also on Roelstra's side. Do you seriously think Zehava

can stand against all of them in addition to the allies Roelstra openly admits

to? They've all seen what you and Zehava have built here. The Desert will

jiever be a garden, but you've made parts of it into nearly that. This keep,

Chaynal's Radzyn, Tiglath and Tuath and Whitecliff Manor—all the work done by

Zehava's ancestors is finally bearing fruit. Don't you think they'd all love

an excuse to pluck the tree bare? An insult to a High Prince's daughter would

give them a fine reason to avenge her honor, especially if some of them are

married or betrothed to her sisters." She stopped, seeing by her twin's

stricken face that Milar at last understood the gravity of her position—or,

more to the point, Rohan's.

"Andri," she breathed, "if all this is as you say, then what can we do? I

can't let Rohan marry one of Roelstra's daughters—I'd be lighting his pyre!

And if we refuse—"

"Oh, Rohan will be married, and soon," Andrade said, having worked her sister

around to exactly where she wanted her. "I have just the girl for him.

Roelstra

DRAGON PRINCE 21

can't propose a marriage to a man who's already wed, now can he?"

The princess sagged back in her chair. "Is she pretty?" she asked forlornly.

"What's her family like?"

"Very pretty," Andrade soothed, "and very well-born. But even if she was ugly

as a she-dragon and born of a whore, she'd still be perfect for Rohan."

Andrade tossed the stripped grapestem into a bowl and smiled. "My dear Mila,

the girl has a brain."

The midday heat was suffocating. Lord Chaynal watched his father-by-marriage

battle it out with the dragon, wiped sweat from his forehead, and wondered how

long this was going to take. Blood oozed from nicks in the dragon's golden

hide, and a long slash had been cut into one wing; by its twitchings, a nerve

had been hit as well. The dragon snarled his fury as Zehava toyed with him.

But it was taking a long time to subdue the beast, and Chay was getting

worried.

The other riders were restless, too. They were still in semicircular

formation, having moved back only a little when the dragon leaped off his

perch to attack Zehava from the sand at the canyon mouth. The decision of

whether or not to charge was Chaynal's, and he was under orders not to do so

unless there was no other choice. All those men and women present had had

practice with lesser dragons, for Zehava was a generous prince and liked

everyone to come away with a tooth or talon as a souvenir of between-years

hunts. But the prince himself was the only one allowed to kill mating sires

like this one, and nobody interfered without excellent reason.

Chay began to fret, wishing for the cool sea winds of Radzyn Keep. The air

swirled around him with every angry beat of dragon wings, but the heat sucked

sweat out of him and dried it instantly on his skin, giving the air no chance

to cool the perspiration. He squinted into the canyon where merciless sunlight

reflected off the rocks, then looked away, closing his eyes for a few

heartbeats to ease the ache of glare. Shifting in his saddle, he sensed his

unease being communicated to his horse. Silver-tufted

ears flattened back and quivers chased each other through silken muscles

beneath a glossy black hide.

"Patience, Akkal," Chay murmured. "He knows what he's doing." Chay hoped so,

anyway. Much time had passed since the dragon had chosen his ground and Zehava

had drawn first blood. The prince's movements were slower and the curvettes of

his great war-stallion were growing sluggish. It appeared to Chay that the two

old warriors, dragon and prince, were evenly matched now. The dragon roared

and snapped at Zehava, whose horse barely got him out of the way in time.

Rocks clattered in the caves within the canyon, and the whimpers of waiting

females rose to a whine. Each of them was safe and nervous and anxious to be

alone with her chosen mate, calling out to him in plaintive demand for his

presence.

Akkal trembled again and Chay calmed the horse. To distract himself from

growing concern as Zehava narrowly avoided talons and teeth, Chay began to

calculate how many females would die unmated in the caves and how many eggs

would lie unfertilized once this dragon was dead. Fifteen females, perhaps,

with twenty or so eggs each, of which five or six at most might survive to

fly. Multiply this number by the nine other sires Zehava had killed in mating

years, plus their females, and the total was staggering. Yet there were always

more dragons. The Desert gave forth hundreds of hatchlings every three summers

that roamed over the princedoms ravaging crops and herds. Killing the mating

sires was the most efficient way of cutting down the population, for the

unmated females and their unfertilized eggs were lost, too. But even this was

a losing proposition in the end. There were always more dragons.

Chaynal sighed and stroked Akkal's neck. Zehava's power rested in part on his

ability to cut down the dragon population. Would Rohan be able to do as much

when his turn came? It was not a happy thought. Fond as he was of his wife's

brother, and much as he sincerely respected Rohan's gifts, he knew the young

prince hadn't the stomach for killing dragons. Strength in battle as

demonstrated by these hunts was an integral part of the

Desert's power. What other basis for rule was there than military victory?

Chay's own family had guarded the Desert's one safe port for generations,

their prestige firmly based on providing and protecting trade. He was honest

enough—and had enough of a sense of humor—to acknowledge that his forebears'

original power had come from baldfaced piracy; the money to build Radzyn Keep

had not come from port fees legitimately gathered. In these civilized days,

fast ships bearing the red-and-white Radzyn banner no longer roamed the Small

Islands or hid in coves waiting for rich merchantmen. Nowadays his ships

patrolled the waters to keep them safe. But war and thievery endured in his

family line, he reminded himself with a whimsical smile. He had fought with

great enjoyment as Zehava's battle commander, and every three years at the

Rialla he entertained himself with legal robbery when he sold his horses.

Fighting battles and outsmarting one's trading partners: these were excellent

bases for power. Rohan had shown himself a capable warrior that memorable day

against the Merida—though he'd nearly given his parents apoplexy when they had

discovered his unauthorized presence—and he was clever enough when he chose to

be. But Rohan was not a warrior by choice, nor an instinctive bargainer.

Chay's attention was pulled back to the battle before him as the dragon's

wings spread and cast a shadow across the sun. He circled upward on thermals

and bellowed his fury, then hurtled down with claws extended toward Zehava.

The prince calculated the leap to a hair's oreadth, waiting until the last

instant before hauling his outraged stallion around out of range. As he did

so, his sword slashed a bloody rent in the dragon's hide. The beast screamed

in agony and a muted cheer went up from the other riders as the dragon's hind

legs sank into soft sand, wings flapping as he struggled for purchase. Zehava

*wung his horse around and stabbed the dragon's flank lust behind the left

wing. The females in their caves howled in response to their mate's shriek.

Chay began to feel better. Zehava was still every bit the prince he had always

been, skills and cunning intact.

The dragon was bleeding now, his movements and breathing labored. But the fire

in his eyes was unquenched, and as he regained his footing he swerved around

with death in his hot gaze.

Princess Tobin loved her children dearly, but did not feel compelled to spend

her time looking after them. At her husband's keep there were servants enough

to make sure the twin boys were fed, taught, and kept out of serious mischief

while their parents ran the vast estates. Here at Stronghold on their annual

visit there were yet more servants happy to attend the young lords. So when

she heard laughter from the main courtyard outside her windows, she assumed

the boys were being entertained by one or another of the grooms. She glanced

outside to find Jahni astride a dappled pony and Maarken riding a bay, each

child brandishing a wooden sword at a young man who flourished a crimson cloak

like dragon wings. But the twins' playmate was definitely not one of the

grooms.

"Rohan!" she called down to the courtyard. "Whatever are you doing?"

"Dragon, Mama!" Jahni shouted, waving his sword. "Watch me!"

As the twins attempted to ride down the heir to the Desert Princedom, Tobin

shook her head in fond exasperation. She dismissed her secretary and hurried

to the staircase, muttering to herself. "Honestly! Wrapped around their

fingers! A prince in his position, playing dragon for a couple of five-year-

olds!" But there was affection in her voice and as she emerged from the foyer

into the courtyard she laughed as Rohan. dealt a glancing blow on his "wing"

by Maarken's sword, fluttered the cloak and sank to the ground like a dying

dragon.

Tobin regarded her loudty trnoapbaaf oftsprtng v, ith a sigh, then turned to

her brother. "Do get op from there and stop playing the fooi." *e xoMed. He

peeked up at her. bnght-eyed, from mAa *e doriL ~Aad as for you." she said to

her *••&. 'Tafce *OK pones back to their safe Md do«t one tadfc «Mi forte seen

to their

comfort. Your grandsire didn't give them to you to have you neglect them."

"I killed the dragon, Mama, did you see?" Maarken exulted.

"Yes, darling, I saw, and a very good warrior you are, too. Now, you'll excuse

the dragon while he talks with me for a while, won't you?"

The dragon stood up and brushed courtyard dirt from his clothes. "I've heard

it said that dragons have a taste for gobbling up princesses—the prettier the

better."

"Not this princess," Tobin said firmly, then laughed as Rohan began to stalk

her, cloak flapping. "You wouldn't dare!"

The twins squealed with glee as he rushed forward and folded her in his cloak.

Ignoring her cries of protest, he dumped her unceremoniously into the horse

trough. Tobin spluttered, spat water, and glared at her brother.

"Hot as a hatching cave today," he observed casually, and climbed in beside

her.

She swept his feet out from under him with a well-placed kick. He collapsed in

the knee-deep water, yelling his outrage. "Ever seen a drowned dragon?" she

asked sweetly, and hastily backed off as he made a grab for her.

"You've just about drowned a prince!" he grinned, slicking back wet hair.

Tobin gathered up her sopping skirts and climbed out of the trough. "If you

two don't want to share a similar fate ..." she warned her sons playfully.

It was invitation enough. They bounced off their ponies and jumped into the

trough for a water fight. She gleefully joined in, helping the boys dunk Rohan

thoroughly. At last—breathless, soaked, and victorious—the boys went off to

tend their ponies. Rohan picked himself up and climbed out of the trough and

grinned at Tobin.

"There! You've been looking entirely too regal and serious the last few days.

Now you look human again."

She batted at his wet blond head. "Imbecile! Come on, let's go dry off in the

garden where no one will see us. Mother will have us skinned if we drip all

over her new Cunaxan rugs."

Rohan slung a companionable arm around her shoul-

ders as they walked through the courtyard to the garden gates, The flowers

were in their best late-spring bloom and once again Tobin marveled at the

miracle that had brought roses to the Desert. The transformation had begun

when she was a child, and by now she could barely remember a time when

Stronghold had not been as gracious and comfortable as it was now. Radzyn's

luxuries she took for granted, but her soul still belonged to the Stronghold

of her ancestors, and she gloried in the beauty her mother had brought to this

place.

She chose a stone bench in full sunlight and spread her skirts out to dry.

Rohan obliged her by unplaiting her long black braids and helping her finger-

comb her hair.

"Remember when Father used to play dragon for us?" he asked.

"And you always let me have the best chance at him," she replied fondly. "He

didn't have quite your flair with a cloak, though. You're a born actor."

"I hope so," he answered a bit grimly.

"Jahni and Maarken adore you," Tobin went on, pretending not to have noticed

his tone of voice. "You'll make a wonderful father to your own boys."

"Not you, too," he muttered. "Mother's been talking pf nothing else all

spring. At the Rialla she'll find me some fecund, bovine fool of a noblewoman

to make babies with."

"Nobody will force you to marry a girl you can't love. You'll have your pick

of women."

"I'm twenty-one and I haven't found a single girl I'd spend two days with, let

alone my life. You and Chay were lucky to find each other so young."

"Goddess blessing," Tobin said. "And you really haven't gone out looking yet,

you know."

"Mother and Father intend to do it for me," he sighed. "And that's the

problem. Mother's looking for someone so highborn she probably won't know how

to get dressed without the help of three maids. And Father wants somebody

pretty and fertile—says he wants handsome grandsons." Rohan laughed ruefully.

"And as for what / want—"

"Don't you dare pay meek and obedient with me." she told him severely. 'I know

you, little brother If you

don't want to marry a particular girl, you won't, no matter what Father and

Mother have to say."

"But sooner or later I'll have to play stud to some girl or other. Are your

clothes dry yet? Father will be back with his dragon."

"This one should have been yours."

"No, thank you. I'd rather watch them than kill them. There's something about

their flying, Tobin, and listening to them roar when they're hunting. . . ."He

shrugged. "Oh, I know they're a nuisance. But the Desert would be poorer

without them."

Tobin frowned. Everyone knew the dragons had to be killed off. They were more

than a nuisance; they were a threat. Radzyn had lost six good mares and eight

promising yearlings this spring to dragons, and caravans crossing the Desert

were never safe. Dragonwings had swept destructive winds from Gilad to the

Veresch Mountains for centuries, dining off livestock and crops.

"I know you don't agree with me," Rohan said with a smile, correctly reading

her expression. "But you've never been interested in watching their dances or

finding out about them. They're so beautiful, Tobin—proud and strong and free—

"

"You're a romantic," she said, and brushed the drying hair from his eyes. "The

dragons have to be killed off, and we both know it. Chay says that once they

get down past a certain number, nature will do the rest of the work for us.

There won't be enough dragons to repopulate the flights."

"I hope that never happens." He got to his feet and patted the damp material

of his shirt. "I don't think we'll drip too much. We should get back inside

and get ready for the come-home feast."

"And to sew up the rents in Chay's hide." Tobin grimaced.

"He only takes a few scratches so you'll have something to yell at him about.

I never saw a man more willing to accommodate his wife's temper!"

"I have a very sweet, docile, placid nature," she protested sententiously.

He nodded, blue eyes dancing. "Just like the rest of the family."

Right on cue, the twins came squabbling through the garden gates, calling for

their mother to settle an argument. Tobin sighed, Rohan winked at her, and

they went to bring some order to her unruly offspring.

Lady Andrade, having soothed her sister's fears after purposely provoking

them, had suggested a game of chess to while away the time until Zehava's

return. The two women left the solar for the family's large, private chamber,

elegantly furnished and currently decorated with Jahni and Maarken's toys. For

all that the fortress was said to have been carved out by dragons in ages

past, Stronghold was remarkably civilized, even beautiful. Andrade knew this

to be Milar's doing. Windows that had once been set with crude, smoky glass

were now filled with fine, clear, beveled panes. Floors that had been either

bare or awash in frayed carpets now boasted rugs thick enough to sleep on.

Carved wood was everywhere, its natural fragrance enhanced by the oils used to

keep it shining and protected from the ravages of the climate. Decorations of

gold, crystal, and ceramic abounded, the more precious items displayed in

glass-fronted cases. Milar enjoyed free run of Zehava's wealth and was forever

receiving merchants eager to sell her even more luxuries; these merchants

carried away with them tales of the magnificence of a once comfortless keep.

Certainly it would be no hardship for Rohan's future wife to live here.

Andrade was engaged in a tactful loss to her sister at chess when shouts

outside turned their attention from the game. "What's all that racket?"

"Zehava is back with his dragon," Milar replied excitedly, rising to her feet,

her cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling like a young girl's.

"He made short work of the beast. I didn't expect him back until nightfall."

Andrade joined her twin at the windows.

"If he drags the thing into the main courtyard like he did last time, the

stink will invade the halls for weeks,"

Milar complained. "But I don't see any dragon—or Zehava, either."

Stronghold was built in a hollow of the hills, reached by a long tunnel

through the cliffs. Riders were emerging from the passage into the outer

court, and the gates had t been flung open in the wall guarding the main yard.

Spotting Chaynal's dark head and red tunic, Andrade wondered whether Zehava

and his dragon were following more slowly. "Let's go down and greet them," she

said.

"Highness! Highness!" Milar's chamberlain accosted them on the stairs, his

shrill voice grating on Andrade's nerves. "Oh, come at once, please, please!"

"Did the prince take hurt while slaying his dragon?" Milar asked. She hurried

her steps a bit but was not overly alarmed. It would have been miraculous if

Zehava had escaped without a scratch.

"I think so, your grace, I—"

"Andrade!" Chay's voice bellowed from the foyer below. "Damn it all, find her

at once!"

Milar pushed the chamberlain out of her way and flew down the stairs. Andrade

was right behind her. She caught at Chay's arm while Milar raced outside into

the courtyard. "How bad?" she asked tersely.

"Bad enough." He would not meet her gaze.

Andrade sucked in a breath. "Bring him upstairs, then. Gently. Then find Tobin

and Rohan."

She hurried back to Zehava's suite and busied herself making the bed ready to

receive him. He would die in it, she told herself sadly. Chay was no fool; he

had been in battles enough to know a mortal wound when he saw one. But perhaps

with careful attention, Zehava might survive. Andrade tried to hope, but when

they brought the prince up and placed him on the white silk sheets, she knew

Chay was right. She stripped the clothes and makeshift bandages from the big

Melanie Rawn - Dragon Prince 1 - Dragon Prince

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