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