Eyes of wintry blue gazed down at her when she dared lift her face again. She had seen the old prince once or twice on his visits to the small coastal holding she called home, and this young man was suddenly very like him—not in coloring or size, but in the expression that chilled his thin face.
“Now that you’re awake,” he went on, “perhaps you’d be so good as to inform me of Lord Chaynal’s whereabouts.”
“In his tent, your grace, with young Lord Maarken and Lord Davvi of River Run.”
He nodded, his blond hair catching every ray of fading sunlight. “Having just come down the northern road, I can assure you it is free of enemies. But had it not been. . . .” He raised a brow. “Do I make myself understood?”
“Yes, your grace.”
“Good. You have my permission to inform Lord Chaynal that I am here.”
She bowed again and fled.
Rohan heard the sound begin as he rode forward, a murmuring that swelled to cheers when they caught sight of him. He had heard soldiers greet his father this way, seen them emerge from their tents and leave off work to line his path with shouts of welcome, swords and bows lifted with pride in the victory Zehava always brought with him. But the accolade and the tumultuous welcome were not for his father this time. They were for him. Rohan. Their dragon prince. The knowledge made him a little sick.
He had brought with him twenty archers and thirty horse, and his squire Tilal. The one pleasure he had was knowing the boy would be reunited with his father. The prospect of explaining events to Chay was not something to be anticipated with anything other than dread. He cursed his cowardice and kept all emotion from his face as he rode to the plain dark war tent, distinguished from the others by the Radzyn standard hanging from a silver pole. Desert colors would soon take its place, and Chay’s flag would shift to the other side of the entrance. As if, Rohan told himself, he would be in command of this war.
Chay was waiting for him along with the captains and a man bearing a superficial likeness to Sioned and a much stronger one to Tilal. And could that possibly be Maarken? He returned their bows with a crisp nod, grateful for rituals a prince could hide behind. Thank the Goddess for ceremony, no matter how false. No, he corrected, there was no falseness here but him.
“My prince,” Chay greeted him, sending an urgent message with his eyes. Rohan understood. His people pressed close for a word from their prince, and he would have to give it. He dug his heels into his stallion’s sides and pulled back on the reins. His beloved Pashta, restored to him from Skybowl, rose impressively on his haunches and swerved around. Rohan held up his fisted right hand, and all was silence. He smiled tightly.
“Tonight the High Prince rests across the river in his camp. But, by the Goddess, soon he will find eternal rest.”
A roar went up and Rohan gave himself acid congratulations for the stupid speech—brief enough to be repeated verbatim throughout the camp tonight. He noted Chay’s approval as he swung down off his horse. Tossing the reins to Tilal, he drew off his riding gauntlets and approached Lord Davvi, whom he had met only once, and very briefly, at Stronghold two years ago.
“My lady wife has told me of your goodness in coming to us,” he said formally, aware of being watched. He wished he could let down even a little of his guard, but that would have to come later, in private. “I thank you for your help, my lord, and will talk longer with you later. But for now I think there’s someone else here with a prior claim on your attention.” He nodded to Tilal, who was practically dancing with excitement.
Davvi had scarcely been able to take his eyes off his son. Now he gave Rohan a slightly abashed smile. “Your grace, I’m honored by your friendship and your indulgence. I would indeed like to speak with my son.”
The curve of his lips felt strange; it was the first genuine smile that had come to him in a long time. “Until later then, my lord.” As Davvi want to embrace Tilal, Rohan saw that Chay had dismissed the captains and sent them to give orders that should have dispersed the troops.