dearest daughter, that self-indulgence at this time would be fatal.
The princess’ lips curved in a sarcastic smile. The pointed reference to her many lovers was unnecessary. She had not been touched since the beginning of winter, and made very sure that her household knew she slept alone. There were visitors enough to Feruche that would attest to her chastity during this period, persons who could have no stake in the game she and her father would soon play in earnest.Speak to your Merida cub at the earliest opportunity. Do not let their hot blood ruin our plans for Rohan and his Sunrunner witch. Let the Merida know in the strongest terms that if they spoil this, they will find themselves positively yearning for their wastelands from the smallest, darkest cells in the lowest depths of Castle Crag.
Regarding your unsubtle hints about the future of your sons—if they are like you and me, and I suspect that they are, then telling them what they will have when they are grown will do no good. Currently Rusalka and Kiele are battling for position over young Lord Lyell of Waes, who needs a bride. I find this as amusing as the days when you and your sisters were at it over Rohan. Daughters vie with each other over men—but sons fight over castles and power. Let us see how your boys turn out before we promise them anything.
In any case, Ianthe, with any luck they will be ruling the Desert when they are grown men. They can wait, and take what they like at that time.
She sighed ruefully. She had anticipated this reply and had not really expected her suggestions to find any favor with him. It would have been useful to have in writing gifts of land and castle for her sons, but Roelstra was correct in many ways: they would only grow up trying to outmaneuver each other. Ianthe intended they should work together as much as their ambitious natures would allow. She had no illusions about their acquisitive instincts. Ruval at four and Marron at barely three already fought over almost everything, and year-old Segev watched his brothers’ battles with great interest.
Their fathers were highborn men of excellent lineage and spectacular beauty. Ianthe sighed again at the thought of them: Chelan with his smoldering eyes and perfect body, Evais’ incredible imagination in bed, Athil’s erotic games. Poor Athil. He had not been content with clothes and jewels and fine horses as the others had been. He had wanted marriage to the favorite daughter of the High Prince. His sunlight fairness had reminded her of Rohan, and it had been surprisingly difficult to order his death, annoying as his demands had become. At least Chelan and Evais had had the sense to leave when told. It amused her to reflect that she would have jumped at the chance to marry any of them while she still lived at Castle Crag. Years of exercising absolute authority in her own keep had taught her that marriage was not for her.
Yet memories of nights with her lovers stirred her vitals, and she damned the scheme that dictated her continued abstinence. Her spies at Castle Crag told her that her father disported himself with anything in skirts these days, but there had been no more children—not even daughters. Ianthe chuckled, for reports also featured rumors that Roelstra was impotent. Served him right.
His letter ended with a caution that this was to be their last communication for a long time. Ianthe felt no regret. She burned the parchment and left her private chamber, glad she would not have the trouble of composing a reply. She was compelled to restrain her temper with her father, a discipline she found more and more irksome as the years went on.
Her women were hard at work in the weaving room. The great tapestry with its matching pillows and bed hangings was nearly complete, and Ianthe inspected the work with growing excitement. The tapestry depicted various stages of the dragons’ mating ritual, fascinating scenes woven in brilliant, clashing colors chosen by the princess herself. One panel showed males battling in the sand, their talons picked out in crimson and orange, blood dripping from their gaping jaws and from rents in their hides. The violence continued into the next panel, where ten females heavy with eggs circled above a cliff where a male displayed himself in ritual dance, his virility almost obscene.
The third panel depicted male and female in the act, dagger-teeth