Read Online Dragon Prince 01 - Dragon Prince by Melanie Rawn - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Melanie Rawn
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He had been a remarkably beautiful youth and had matured into a handsome man; oncoming age only added to his looks. But many years of absolute rule had set certain things into his eyes—arrogance, cynicism, contempt. All of these were in evidence as he looked at his most valued, though not most trusted servant.
“So. The old dragon is dying. It’s certain, Crigo?”
“Yes, your grace. He was gored most horribly and now lies in his bed, from which he will not rise.”
“Hmm.” Roelstra tapped his index finger against his lips and regarded Crigo. “You seem tired. Have you been indulging too much or too little?”
The man’s fair head bent. “I . . . apologize for my condition, your grace.”
“Sleep it off. Come back to me at moonrise, for I wish to send a message to our contact at Stronghold. And you must take better care of yourself, Crigo,” he cautioned, smiling without humor. “It’s not every prince who has his very own renegade Sunrunner.”
Crigo’s lean shoulders flinched at the reminder of what he was. Roelstra studied him for a few more moments, thinking that it might become necessary to acquire a new faradhi soon. Crigo was beginning to look used up.
“Leave me,” he ordered, and rose to look out the windows. The door latch clicked softly, and Roelstra was alone. He gazed at his daughters, saw Palila’s auburn hair gleaming in the sunlight, and wondered what plots were whirling around in their heads today. The princesses were getting to a dangerous age, he reflected—too old to be placated with toys and games, old enough to want more of the silks and jewels that were an idle woman’s playthings. Ianthe and Pandsala in particular would bear watching, for they were intelligent. A woman with a brain was not a thing to be relished.
He wondered if the young princeling had a brain. Son of the old dragon and nephew of the redoubtable Lady Andrade; perhaps he could think. Roelstra hoped so. It would make life much more interesting.
He wondered, too, if Andrade knew about Crigo or the dranath. Such a humble little plant, growing only in the highest reaches of the Veresch, but incredibly potent when boiled, dried, and refined to powder. Crigo was its slave, and because Roelstra was master of his dranath supply, the Sunrunner was Roelstra’s slave as well. It was a pity so useful a tool was wearing out.
Inhaling deeply of the moist breeze off the river, he thought of the dry heat of the Desert and grinned. One of his daughters would soon find out how people survived there. The Goddess had not cursed him with so many female offspring for nothing. Prince Zehava would be dead soon; by late summer when the Hatching Hunt was over, the new prince would be seen for the weakling he was. At the Rialla in autumn, Rohan would find himself matched to one of the princesses and overmatched in his dealings with their father.
Roelstra stretched his powerful shoulders and smiled, thoughts of the Rialla bringing to mind the beach at Brochwel Bay and making love to Palila there. But he reminded himself that pregnancy would have swollen her to grotesque proportions by then. Roelstra preferred very slender women. But if her looks were lost for the sake of bearing a son—He bit his lip against a hope that surely ought to have died after seventeen daughters.
Which one should be Rohan’s bride? Naydra might do; Lenala was impossible. Pandsala or Ianthe—now, there was a thought. Beautiful, brilliant Ianthe. But would she come to relish power and forget who had given it to her by making her Rohan’s wife? He tried to identify the faces and characteristics of his other girls, and could not; there were so damned many of them. Still, the fact that they had rarely been called to his notice led him to believe that they might be more trustworthy than Ianthe. Women who wanted his attention inevitably wanted something more—gowns, jewelry, trinkets to keep them content for a while before they desired more. Those things
“So. The old dragon is dying. It’s certain, Crigo?”
“Yes, your grace. He was gored most horribly and now lies in his bed, from which he will not rise.”
“Hmm.” Roelstra tapped his index finger against his lips and regarded Crigo. “You seem tired. Have you been indulging too much or too little?”
The man’s fair head bent. “I . . . apologize for my condition, your grace.”
“Sleep it off. Come back to me at moonrise, for I wish to send a message to our contact at Stronghold. And you must take better care of yourself, Crigo,” he cautioned, smiling without humor. “It’s not every prince who has his very own renegade Sunrunner.”
Crigo’s lean shoulders flinched at the reminder of what he was. Roelstra studied him for a few more moments, thinking that it might become necessary to acquire a new faradhi soon. Crigo was beginning to look used up.
“Leave me,” he ordered, and rose to look out the windows. The door latch clicked softly, and Roelstra was alone. He gazed at his daughters, saw Palila’s auburn hair gleaming in the sunlight, and wondered what plots were whirling around in their heads today. The princesses were getting to a dangerous age, he reflected—too old to be placated with toys and games, old enough to want more of the silks and jewels that were an idle woman’s playthings. Ianthe and Pandsala in particular would bear watching, for they were intelligent. A woman with a brain was not a thing to be relished.
He wondered if the young princeling had a brain. Son of the old dragon and nephew of the redoubtable Lady Andrade; perhaps he could think. Roelstra hoped so. It would make life much more interesting.
He wondered, too, if Andrade knew about Crigo or the dranath. Such a humble little plant, growing only in the highest reaches of the Veresch, but incredibly potent when boiled, dried, and refined to powder. Crigo was its slave, and because Roelstra was master of his dranath supply, the Sunrunner was Roelstra’s slave as well. It was a pity so useful a tool was wearing out.
Inhaling deeply of the moist breeze off the river, he thought of the dry heat of the Desert and grinned. One of his daughters would soon find out how people survived there. The Goddess had not cursed him with so many female offspring for nothing. Prince Zehava would be dead soon; by late summer when the Hatching Hunt was over, the new prince would be seen for the weakling he was. At the Rialla in autumn, Rohan would find himself matched to one of the princesses and overmatched in his dealings with their father.
Roelstra stretched his powerful shoulders and smiled, thoughts of the Rialla bringing to mind the beach at Brochwel Bay and making love to Palila there. But he reminded himself that pregnancy would have swollen her to grotesque proportions by then. Roelstra preferred very slender women. But if her looks were lost for the sake of bearing a son—He bit his lip against a hope that surely ought to have died after seventeen daughters.
Which one should be Rohan’s bride? Naydra might do; Lenala was impossible. Pandsala or Ianthe—now, there was a thought. Beautiful, brilliant Ianthe. But would she come to relish power and forget who had given it to her by making her Rohan’s wife? He tried to identify the faces and characteristics of his other girls, and could not; there were so damned many of them. Still, the fact that they had rarely been called to his notice led him to believe that they might be more trustworthy than Ianthe. Women who wanted his attention inevitably wanted something more—gowns, jewelry, trinkets to keep them content for a while before they desired more. Those things
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