Dragon Prince - By Melanie Rawn Page 0,200

of tutors and advisers. But he had found that Roelstra’s rule was even more confining. The leather battle-armor decorated here and there with garnets fit him most attractively now that life in a soldier’s camp had run the baby fat from him, but he had not yet learned a soldier’s discipline. Roelstra, inspecting the scarlet cheeks and flashing gray-green eyes, considered it was time to teach a lesson.

“I am a prince,” Jastri informed him hotly. “I am no man’s boy!”

“You are and will remain a boy until you’ve blooded yourself with a virgin girl and a battle,” Roelstra snapped back.

“And you’re the one to instruct me in both!” the young prince scoffed. “You, whose wife and five luckless mistresses have made no sons for you! You who sit here in this tent stuffing yourself on breakfast when we could be feeding our swords with Desert blood!”

Roelstra sighed, comforting himself with the thought of how pleasant it was going to be to have this irritating child killed. He said, “When you have sons of your own and scars of battle on your skin, then you may gloat. Boy. But until that time, you will do as I say.”

Jastri flung himself out of the tent, shouting furiously for his horse and escort. Roelstra ignored the commotion and attempted to interest himself in breakfast once again, but could not. He hoped Lord Chaynal was equally incapable of enjoying his meals, his sleep, and his every waking moment.

Yet he smiled as he considered what must be going through the Desert commander’s mind. Roelstra’s troops outnumbered Chaynal’s, a weakness that could be exploited at any time—yet Roelstra did not attack. The excuse for battle had been handed to him by Lord Davvi, who was with the Desert armies rather than supporting his rightful overlord—yet Roelstra did not attack. The High Prince picked up his goblet and spoke to his reflection in its polished silver surface.

“Do I wait for Lord Chaynal to attack first? No, I’m too clever to think he’d put himself in the wrong. Do I wait for Rohan to arrive so I can destroy him and his armies in a single battle? No, for I know the princeling will be surrounded by a wall of swords and shields. Then why do I wait on my side of the river like a sandstorm brewing in the Desert?”

He chuckled and drank, conceding that if Jastri had a virtue, it was his ability to provide the finest of Syrene wines. Probably his only virtue, Roelstra added with a sigh as he heard a renewed commotion outside his tent. A squire slunk in and bowed, a convenient target for the High Prince’s temper.

“Am I to have no peace at all? What is it now?”

“Forgive me, your g-grace, I—”

The tent flaps parted, to reveal a woman he had thought never to see again. She made a cursory obeisance, her dark eyes insolent and cool, and said, “Welcome me back, Father.” She held up her hands, and he saw the three Sunrunner’s rings on her fingers.

Guards stood behind her, wary and uncertain. Roelstra waved them and the squire out of the tent. “Do you think my daughter is here to kill me? Get out, all of you! I’ll speak alone with the princess.”

Pandsala seated herself without permission and folded her hands in her lap. “Thank you for my title, Father. With that and my rings, I should have no more trouble making these people obey me.”

“Why should they obey you, and to what purpose?”

She laughed. “Lord of Storms, what do you think these last six years have been like, walled up with Lady Andrade? Even if you’d turned me out—which you’re too smart to do, having seen these rings—and even if you’d had me killed, it’d be preferable to what I’ve endured.”

He regarded her silently, allowing his suspicions to show on his face. At last, he said, “You’ve not aged well, my dear. Andrade and her pious household have not agreed with you any more than they would with me. I don’t trust you, Pandsala. But you don’t expect me to, I take it. What do you want?”

“My freedom. And my position as your daughter, and a princess. I can be of use to you, Father, and you know it.” She smiled. “You’re showing your age, too, you know. White hairs here, more flesh there, lines and wrinkles. Are you still wasting your time and energy trying to beget a son, or have you decided Ianthe’s brats will make

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