bared, tongues lashing out, bodies almost visibly writhing. Golden sand spewed up around them in the hot darkness of the cave. There was a terrible fascination in the rutting that made Ianthe smile.
The last panel was near completion, about half of it still only sketched in thread and not yet filled in. It was a scene of young hatchlings battling each other, white shells contrasting with blue, dark scarlet, bronze, and coppery hides. A strong young dragon dug his talons into a dead sibling, about to devour him. But in the shadows another hatchling waited, his eyes picked out in livid red as he watched the carnage and sought his chance.
The pillows were small vignettes of mating dragons and fighting sires, hatchlings feeding off each other, flames searing into cavern shadows. They had been her rejected designs for the larger tapestry. The bed hangings snowed more scenes of savage mating, and when closed around a bed the thickly stitched curtains would produce a small cave of erotic violence.
Ianthe smiled her approval of the work and left the room, thinking of the lover for whom she had planned the weavings as she went up to the battlements to enjoy the dry breeze that lifted her hair from her nape and fluttered the hem of her gown. Below her was the border where Rohan’s garrison sheltered in barracks carved into the cliffs. Three times in the last years Ianthe had sent for their captain when the Merida attacked trade caravans, attacks she planned most carefully for times when she wished the prince to know she had been delivered of a son. She laughed lightly and leaned against the pink stone wall, remembering the pleasure of flaunting her sons—sons his faradhi bitch would never bear him. But the fourth summons had gone down to the captain only fifteen days ago, and the attack had been arranged for a different reason. When the garrison captain had arrived, Ianthe had invited him to dinner as was customary by now—and had talked of dragons. There were ancient caves in the higher mountains where the great beasts might go this year to mate. Rohan was interested in anything concerning dragons, and by now had undoubtedly been told about these caves. But even if he did not investigate on his own, Ianthe had other plans. She had learned in a hard school that one must always have other plans.
She turned as her eldest son called out imperiously, and saw the nurse bringing all three boys for an evening hour with their mother. She kissed them all and dandled the youngest on her knee, gloating. Strong, healthy boys they were, long-limbed and handsome like their fathers, clever and quick-witted like her. Ruval and Marron chattered of the day’s doings, fighting as usual over who had thrown a ball farther and run faster. She had produced sons, where the Sunrunner could not even carry a child halfway to term. She knew all about Sioned’s failure to produce an heir, rejoicing that the difficulty was natural and she had not been put to the trouble of arranging miscarriages for the faradhi.
She wondered what the Desert had done to the woman these last six years. Scrawny and withered, Ianthe told herself scornfully, her skin lined and rough, for she was not the type to pay strict attention to her looks. Motherhood had ripened Ianthe’s beauty, turned girlish slimness to lush curves of breast and hip and thigh, though she had been careful to keep her waist trim. She had been just as careful to guard her skin and hair from the ravages of hot sun and wind, and had used Palila’s tricks to prevent her pregnancies from marking her flesh. She would require all her perfections for this game, and knew herself to be flawlessly beautiful.
Marron climbed up onto her lap, nearly dislodging Segev, who screamed and clung to her with one hand while battering at Marron with the other. Ianthe hugged them to her breast, cherishing her triumph in their existence. When they were grown, they would hold the Desert and rule over Princemarch besides. The path to power for a woman lay in the men she controlled, and she laughed aloud as she played with her sons. The lands and castles might become theirs, but they were forever hers.
Tobin folded her hands in her lap and looked up at her husband. The morning sunlight that shone off his dark hair showed the faintest traces of silver. He wore supple riding