for the dranath. But there had been bitterness in his laughter as well, for Zehava, even knowing how necessary the dragons were, had gone on killing them. Rohan surmised that his father considered his warrior’s reputation to be of more importance than the survival of the dragons and that he had further assumed Rohan would, when he became prince, devise a way to preserve their numbers and therefore their output of gold.
A clever and ruthless man, Zehava—but he had reckoned without the Plague. Rohan shook his head again and got out of his bath. He let the air dry him and, wrapped in a thin silk robe, went into the bedchamber. The serenity of the rooms his mother had created for him and Sioned soothed him as always. Nothing that had been his parents’ remained but for the huge bed in which generations of princes had been conceived, had given their first cries, and had breathed their last. The rich, bright colors of Zehava’s day had been replaced by deep greens and blues that complimented Sioned’s fire-gold looks and Rohan’s blondness. Tables, chairs, and wardrobes of heavy dark wood had given way to lighter, more casually elegant furniture. He had rarely been comfortable in these rooms when his parents had inhabited them, and had been surprised at how quickly they had become his refuge. Here he and Sioned had loved each other through nights without end, shared secrets and plans and dreams for the future. And here, too, he had wept with her over the loss of their children.
The first time had been the winter after their marriage; the second, that next autumn. She carried each child just long enough to thicken her waist a little. Pregnant again the summer of the Plague, the disease had not robbed her of the child; the dranath had. The heavy dosage necessary to save her life had devastated her faradhi senses and come close to addicting her to the drug. Even in the ungifted, the required amount brought hallucinations as Rohan remembered only too well from his own brief illness. He and Sioned had both survived; their child had not, and there had been no sign of another since.
Rohan sat down at a table spread with silk and silver and the Fironese crystal goblets Sioned had bought at the Fair six years ago. Ianthe had spoiled that night for them, and Rohan’s brows knotted at thought of the princess. She had three fine sons by three different lovers, and had protected them and her castle against Plague by having anyone who showed signs of any illness thrown down the cliffs. Rohan could not entirely condemn her for that. He knew he would have done the same if there had been any chance of saving his mother or Camigwen or Jahni, sparing Sioned an instant’s suffering, or keeping their child alive within her body. He had himself executed seven people with his own sword when they were caught hoarding dranath to sell at staggering prices. But the law would say he had done justice where Ianthe had done deliberate murder. Yet he could not condemn her. He understood.
A small whirlwind blew in through the outer door and forgot to close it behind him. Rohan gasped at the impact of Riyan’s small body against his chest and hugged back.
“Papa says for me to say I’m sorry,” the boy explained. “I’m sorry!”
“Apology accepted—if you’ll let me breathe!” Rohan laughed and settled Riyan onto one knee. Camigwen’s beautiful eyes looked at him from her son’s impish face, and Rohan hid another ache of loss behind a smile as Ostvel appeared in the doorway. “Don’t scold him. He only came to tell me he’s sorry.”
“And well he should be. Now he’s interrupted your dinner!” Ostvel lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender, grinning. “Sioned says start without her.”
“I already have.” He held Riyan out from him. “And if it’s time for my dinner, then it’s certainly time for you to be in bed, young sir. Take it as a royal command from your prince.”
The child sighed. “You’re much more fun as my dragon,” he complained.
“I’ve heard little boys say that before. It didn’t work then and it won’t work now. Off to bed with you.” He set the boy on his feet and Riyan went to his father. Rohan had to glance away as the small fingers disappeared into Ostvel’s hand.
“My lord?”
He met his friend’s gaze, wearing another careful smile. Ostvel wasn’t fooled, but only his eyes