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.
Rohan smiled, but his heart was aching as he recalled other boys, just five years old like Riyan, who’d crowed with delight while slaying another dragon. Maarken alone had gone last year to Prince Lleyn for his training as a squire, for Jahni had died of the Plague.
“Tilal’s turning into a fine lad,” Walvis observed. “When I think of what a beast he was when he came here—! I never would have believed that one of my lady’s blood could be so awful!”
It had taken time, and the back of Walvis’ hand on more than one occasion, to cure Tilal of a tendency to lord it over the other squires. By now he knew his duties and his place, and no longer traded on his relationship to Sioned. That they were close kin was obvious; they had the same green eyes and fair skin, though Tilal had his mother’s dark hair. The combination was striking, and even at ten winters old he had been well on the way to an obnoxious conceit. Walvis had cured him of that, too, over the last two years.
“Getting him away from his mother was the making of him,” Walvis continued. “Is it true she’ll be at the Rialla this year?”
“To catch sight of her precious darling? I’ve heard it rumored.”
“My lady isn’t going to be happy about that.”
Rohan hid sudden laughter. Much of Walvis’ conversation for the last six years had revolved around Sioned, and it had never been very difficult to discern why. Rohan could appreciate the feeling. He himself had loved her from the first moment he saw her. The squire-turned-knight fondly believed his worship of her to be a secret, and Sioned was perfection in her dealings with him. She was playful at times in the manner of a woman with a younger brother, and in public treated him with grave courtesy as a full-grown man, never as a little boy. When Rohan teased her about her adoring young champion, she replied serenely that she was only making sure that the woman Walvis truly fell in love with had a wonderful husband. Had she made mock of his feelings or tried to change them, he might have come to resent women. He was entirely content to adore and serve his prince’s lady. “He’ll grow out of it the minute he sees some pretty girl his own age,” she had told Rohan. “I must confess I’ll miss my squire, but—what do you want to bet the girl will be a redhead? And that he’ll name his first daughter after me?”
Rohan was wise enough not to take the bet.
Tilal and Riyan had picked themselves up by now, still giggling. Sensing that they were being watched, they waved up at Rohan and Walvis. Riyan, dark like his mother and with her remarkable eyes, jumped up and down and called excitedly, “Play dragons again, prince!”
“Again? I was your dragon the other day all afternoon long, and you killed me at least ten times! Even a dragon needs some rest. And you seem to have found another who’s much better at it than I am.”
“Prince!” the child demanded, certain of indulgence. “Come down and play dragons!”
Walvis drew breath to call down a reprimand, but Rohan placed a restraining hand on his arm. “I’d much rather play dragons than read all those reports,” he murmured wistfully.
“You haven’t had your dinner yet, my lord. And my lady won’t thank me for letting you exhaust yourself with those two whirl-winds again.”
“Walvis,” he said in exasperation, “if you and my wife don’t stop behaving like she-dragons with a single egg—do I look sickly and delicate to you? Or do you think I’m getting old? Decrepit and drooling at twenty-seven?” He snorted. Leaning out the window, he told the boys, “I have to play prince tonight. We’ll save dragons for tomorrow!”
Another voice came from down below, and Rohan grinned as Ostvel hurried into the gardens. “Riyan! Tilal! You know better than to make so much noise and trouble for your prince!” He shaded his eyes against the setting sun with one hand, squinting up at the window where Rohan stood. “I’m sorry, my lord. If there aren’t fifty eyes on them both, they disappear.” Ostvel clamped a hand on Tilal’s shoulder as the boy began edging toward the gates.