16
Stronghold: 35 Spring
Feylin, Lady of Remagev and counter of dragons, loathed crowds. The entire population of Stronghold stood waiting in the hot sun, for Rohan had ordered up princely honors for Miyon’s arrival from Tiglath. Not because the Cunaxan expected it, though he would—or deserved it, for he didn’t—but because such display would be an unmistakable reminder to a man lacking in subtlety. Only a moron would fail to be impressed by the sight of the castle guard, wearing battle blue and harness, lining a pathway all the way through the tunnel into the main courtyard. Rohan’s family and vassals, arranged in strict order of precedence on the main steps, were impressive in and of themselves.
The Lord and Lady of Remagev were of minor importance in terms of prestige, though few were closer personally to the High Prince. Walvis had been Rohan’s squire and had, in fact, know him longer than Sioned had. But Remagev, once a holding in possession of Rohan’s cousin who had died without heirs, was technically lower in rank than Tuath Castle or Faolain Lowland or Whitecliff, and certainly far below the crown jewel that was Radzyn. But though Walvis and Feylin had as little use for the protocol of position as their prince, standing on the fringes of the highborn assembly afforded a much better view. They could watch everything without being noticed, unlike Chay and Maarken and their wives, who were front and center and themselves the objects of many sharp eyes.
Feylin shifted her shoulder beneath the deep blue silk of her formal tunic. It was hot and she regretted the layers of clothing necessary for this absurd welcome as much as she begrudged the time it took away from her studies. When the dragon horn sounded, she was mentally reviewing statistics that had come in through Sunrunner means only that morning. The count of dragons this year was seventeen sires, eighty-five females, and sixty-three immature dragons not yet old enough for mating. Those numbers had held more or less steady for three cycles, reassuring her that the population had stabilized. But it was still dangerously low. And disaster had happened at Feruche two years ago, when five caves had collapsed. A total of only thirty-six caverns were now available there and near Skybowl—which meant that forty-nine of the females would die.
Feylin had worried at the problem until her wits ached, but there was only one solution: persuade the dragons back to Rivenrock with its one hundred seven lovely, spacious, perfect caves, unused since the Plague. Dragons had died by the hundreds then at Rivenrock and had shunned the place ever since. But if they did not return there or find other caves, their numbers would not increase to a level Feylin considered safe.
If they would only use Rivenrock, all eighty-five females would produce at least two and, with very good luck, four hatchlings each to fly from the caves. Call it three apiece, which would make it—
“Stop that,” her husband whispered in her ear, startling her.
“Stop what? I wasn’t doing anything.”
“You’re counting dragons on your fingers again.” He tugged playfully at the dark red braid trailing down her back. “I’m willing to put up with your maps and anatomy diagrams at meals and even your muttered calculations while we’re in bed—”
“I never!” Feylin exclaimed.
“You do so. As your sweet-natured, long-suffering, adoring husband, I’ll endure your dragons most of the time, but the least you can do is pay attention to the arrival of your own children.” He grinned down at her.
Feylin glanced around. The chamberlain was calling out Miyon’s titles and all eyes were fixed on the gates, so she felt safe enough in giving Walvis her sweetest smile—and an elbow to the ribs. “That for your sweet nature!”
He grunted with the impact, a sound lost in the shouts and cries that greeted Miyon’s entrance. Feylin forgot dragons in the satisfaction of knowing that the people of Stronghold gave not a damn about the Cunaxan prince; they were welcoming Tallain, Riyan, Maarken’s two children, and her own Sionell and Jahnavi.
She evaluated the familiar faces quickly. Tallain was wary beneath the bland facade which he did even better than Rohan, from whom he had learned it. Sionell was serene, but there was a strained look around her eyes. Riyan’s tension showed only in his tight grip on the reins. Jahnavi was poised, alert, but innocent of the undercurrents disturbing the others. Grace notes were provided by Chayla and Rohannon—riding without lead reins, Feylin noted approvingly—who bounced excitedly on their ponies at being part of this grown-up spectacle. She saw Hollis direct a quelling look at the children and smiled when Chayla straightened up and kicked her brother into proper decorum that lasted all of two paces.
Miyon’s expression was not as easy to read. He nodded amiably enough to the crowd, but his smile was a mere stretching of his lips and his eyes were black frost. Yet there was a sleek, smug look about him that puzzled Feylin. Rohan and Sioned wore their most charming aspects—a dead giveaway to anyone who knew them well. Fortunately, Miyon did not, and accepted their welcoming smiles as if he were returning in triumph to his own keep.
Feylin whispered as much to Walvis, who nodded. “He’d certainly like Stronghold for his own. I remember the first time he was here, years ago, he inspected things as if making mental notes on what he’d change when he took possession. Feylin, my love, did you have to poke me so hard?”
She reached an inconspicuous hand to rub his side. “Sorry. But you will be provoking. Jahnavi’s grown—as usual! And Sionell looks lovely, doesn’t she?”
“Worried,” he said, blue eyes narrowing.
“Probably about Talya,” Feylin responded, not believing it. “I wish she wasn’t too young to make the journey from Tiglath.”
“We’ll go inflict ourselves on them for the summer. But I’m surprised Ell didn’t stay behind with her.”
“She must have had an excellent reason for coming along.”
“And you’ll have it out of her before dusk,” Walvis murmured. “Tallain’s a smart boy—you notice there’s a soldier of his for every one of Miyon’s? He’s taking no chance that there’s a Merida in the group.”
The very mention of the Desert’s enemies sent sparks into Feylin’s eyes. Walvis saw it and tickled her nape with the end of her braid.
“Settle down and smile,” he advised. “They’ll be up here in a moment, and Jahnavi will think you’re angry with him for not writing more often.”
“Well, I am.” But she smoothed her expression just the same.
Rohan and Sioned descended exactly one step to show respect for a fellow prince, spoke formal words of welcome, and gave the traditional wine cup which Feylin wished could have been laced with poison. Pol was duly greeted, then Andry. Protocol did not permit the introduction of vassals, not even the powerful Lord of Radzyn Keep, but Feylin almost succeeded in hiding a grin as Miyon recognized her husband. At barely nineteen, Walvis had commanded the Desert forces that had defeated the Merida in 704, and his prowess as a warrior was well known. Twenty-four years had put a little gray into his hair and beard, but had also added mature muscle and not a coinweight of excess flesh. There was a very simple reason for this: Remagev, aside from its fine goats and glass ingots, also produced soldiers trained personally and superbly by Walvis. And Miyon knew it.
Tallain had mounted the steps behind the Cunaxan prince, Riyan at his side. Sionell and Jahnavi were next, Chayla and Rohannon firmly in hand. But before Feylin and Walvis could greet their own offspring, the twins had broken free and were clambering all over Maarken and Hollis. The strict formality of the occasion was thus happily broken, and even Miyon chuckled.
It was then that Feylin saw the girl. Wearied by the long ride, looking as fragile as a windblown flower, still she was exquisite. Beneath a soft cap that protected her from the hot spring sun tumbled masses of pale golden hair, each strand a separate curl like spun sunlight. A delicate profile was turned away from the warm and easy welcomes exchanged between friends and family; the girl bit her lip as she was utterly ignored.