a bowl, subjecting their ruby gloss to a critical inspection. “You may think your princedom too rich and powerful to be threatened. But the High Prince is constitutionally incapable of abiding anyone richer than he. And Zehava hasn’t been exactly subtle about his wealth. I heard about the birthday present he sent Roelstra.”
“It was entirely in keeping with—”
“With Zehava’s conceit! Two horses or even four, nicely caparisoned, would have been fine. But twenty! And all in silver! He’s flaunting his riches, Mila, and that’s dangerous—like this imbecile dragon hunt today. He’s killed nine of the monsters, why does he need a tenth?”
Princess Milar wore an expression before which scores of highborns had quailed; her face was none the less lovely for its icy hauteur. “It’s his duty to rid the Desert of dragons. It also demonstrates the cunning and strength which are so important in war. That’s politics.”
“That’s stupidity. Better he should have sent Rohan out to kill this dragon, so his heir’s cunning and strength are made clear.” Andrade popped a grape into her mouth and split the skin with her teeth, drawing off the sweet juices before spitting out the remains into a silver bowl provided for the purpose.
“Rohan has no heart for fighting dragons,” Milar admitted unhappily.
“But he’s warrior enough with heart enough,” Andrade pointed out. “Dressing in common trooper’s uniform that last campaign against the Merida when you’d forbidden him to leave Stronghold—”
“We’ve never worried about his spirit. But you know he spends too much time at his books and talking with the most unlikely people. I’ve defended him in the past, but now I’m beginning to agree with Zehava. Rohan ought to learn how to be the kind of prince his forefathers were.”
“That’s precisely what he doesn’t need to learn! Building a princedom is fine work for a soldier, and Zehava’s done very well. He consolidated what his grandfather began, strengthened his hold on what his father grabbed from the Merida, and enlarged the whole through his own efforts. Actually,” Andrade said in thoughtful tones, “one can’t blame him for wanting to show off. He’s worked wonders, especially against the Merida.”
“If I required a history lesson, I would send for my bard,” Milar snapped.
Andrade ignored her remark. “Zehava’s problem is that he’s run out of things to do. All he can think of is to spend money on you and Tobin and this pile of rock we’re sitting in—and to waste his time killing dragons. Believe me, sister dear, Roelstra can think of many occupations for his own time, and none of them healthy as far as you’re concerned.”
“I fail to see—”
“You usually do,” Andrade interrupted. “Let Rohan read his books and talk with the ambassadors—yes, and even with the servants of the ambassadors! He’ll learn things that Zehava could never teach him.”
“Why don’t you go back to your duties in that moldy old keep of yours, and leave the work of the world to the people who can do it?”
“What do you think I do in my moldy old keep—knit?” Andrade snorted and picked out another fat grape. “While I’m training silly boys and girls to be good faradh’im, I listen to them. And what I hear these days isn’t pleasant, Mila.” She began ticking off points on her long, slender fingers, each one circled by a gold or silver ring with a different gemstone. The rings were linked by tiny chains across the backs of her palms to the bracelets of her office as Lady of Goddess Keep. “One, Roelstra doesn’t plan to make war against anyone, so Zehava’s show of strength and skill in hunting dragons counts for nothing. Two, the High Prince has agents in every court—including yours.”
“Impossible!” Milar scoffed.
“Your wine steward has a nasty look about him, and I wouldn’t vouch for your assistant stablemaster, either. Three, the High Prince has seventeen daughters, some of them legitimate off poor, dead Lallante. All of them need husbands. Where will Roelstra find eligible men for them? I’ll tell you where: from the most important courts, even for the bastard girls.”
The princess sat up straight on the blue velvet lounge. “Do you mean an offer might come for Rohan?”
“Good for you!” Andrade exclaimed in a voice that dripped sarcasm. “Yes, an offer will be made. Can you think of a more eligible young man than your son? He’s rich, of the noblest blood, he’ll rule this wasteland someday—which, though not a recommendation in itself, does imply a certain amount of power. And he’s