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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: Dragon and Phoenix
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It was Redhawk who conceded. “Your Grace,” he said, calmly enough, “I apologize for disturbing you, but my son has defied me for the last time. I simply came to take him home where he belongs, and to face the punishment he deserves.” The angry flush receded.
“I think not,” Lleld said. She spoke quietly, but her tone brooked no argument. “Raven will be coming with us when we leave Thalnia.”
A frown darkened Redhawk’s face. “I order you to come home,” he said to his son, “and forget this traipsing about like some ne’er-do-well.”
“I’m afraid you don’t understand. We need him with us,” said Lleld.
Redhawk’s face grew red again. “With all respect, Dragonlord, I did not raise my son to be a servant.”
“No, Master Robinson, you didn’t. You raised him to be you all over again, instead of one Raven Redhawkson, didn’t you?” Lleld snapped.
For a moment it seemed Redhawk might lose all control of himself. But though his fists clenched at his sides, and a vein beat visibly in his forehead, the merchant said nothing.
“But he isn’t you, with your interests and your talents. He’s himself, with his own very special talents—and we need those talents. Raven is not a servant, Master Robinson, rest assured of that. I can’t tell you the why of all this, but I can tell you that it is with the heartfelt thanks of the Lady of Dragonskeep and our cousins, the truedragons of the north, that Raven is with us … .” She paused to let the full import of her words sink in.
The look Redhawk flashed at his son reminded Linden of Maurynna’s kin on the dock.
“And he will stay with us,” Lleld finished. “He didn’t need this to come with us, Master Robinson, but I think you do: Dragonlord’s orders.”
A long silence followed in which Redhawk visibly struggled with the final thwarting of his plans for Raven’s life. When he finally spoke, his voice seethed with cold fury.
“There is nothing I can say to
that,
is there, Your Grace? After all, I’m but
a simple merchant, and you a Dragonlord. So I will just say this: so be it.” He bowed to Lleld.
Then he looked once more at Raven. “But to
you,”
he snarled, “I say this: I wash my hands of you. From this day I have but one son, and his name is Honigan.”
With that, Redhawk stared defiance at each Dragonlord in turn, and sketched them a mocking bow before turning on his heel and striding from the Mousehole without a backward glance.
When the door slammed shut, Lleld turned to Raven, a stricken look on her face. “Oh, Raven! I’m sorry! I just destroyed your life for you, didn’t I?”
But Raven said with a sigh, “No, you didn’t, Lleld. I did that the day I left with Taren, though I didn’t realize it at the time. I do now.”
He sounded both sad and resigned, but then a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “At least one thing went right.”
“What?” Lleld asked.
“Honigan gets stuck with the damned sheep after all, not me.”
Linden thought the grin that followed would split Raven’s face.
The next morning, Linden came
upon Otter in the solar as the bard sat examining a selection of hand drums on the table before him.
“What’s this?” he asked.
Otter looked up. “There’s a damned good instrument maker here in Port Stormhaven. I know him from our student days at the Bards’ School in Bylith. Mediocre singer, and not much of a harper, but a rare hand at making instruments even then. His eldest daughter does most of the work nowadays, but old Merris still keeps his hand in with these little drums. He always enjoyed these the most, he said. I was there until late last night, catching up on the news and picking these. Raven can drum a bit, you know.”
“Ah—so that’s why you missed all the excitement.”
“Oh?”
“Mm, yes. Redhawk was here, and he had blood in his eye.” Linden looked over the drums; there was quite a range, from various sizes of Assantikkan
zamlas
to a couple of Yerrin
taeresans
and their beaters.
Otter groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Tell me,” he ordered.
When Linden finished, Otter sat tugging his beard. Finally he said, “Raven’s right. It’s best this way. Honigan loves the wool business as much as Raven detests it. And now Raven will have no choice but to go to his aunt. I was always afraid he’d never bring himself to fully defy his father, and do what was right for him. He loves Redhawk, and would have suffered rather than risk turning his father against him. But it’s done now. When this is over, Raven can go to his aunt.” The bard grimaced. “Still, I’d best go talk to Redhawk, see what I can patch up between them; I’ve done it before. It was good of Lleld to take upon herself the responsibility for Raven’s going. Redhawk won’t lose face—or too much, anyway—when I finally talk him into accepting Raven back into the fold. That was a stupid thing to say about having only one son. I’ll just give him a bit to cool down, though.”
“You’ll have a few days for it, then, before we leave.” Linden picked up a
taeresan
and its beater. Wrapping his fingers around the crosspiece inside the
open end of the shallow drum, he tapped on the hide, flipping the beater back and forth as he’d seen performers do—without the same rhythmic, foot-tapping results. It sounded, he thought, pathetic. He kept at it, determined to get it right.
“We’ve a place to live and rehearse?” Otter asked, taking drum and beater away from him. “Good. And boyo—stick to the harp.”
Linden thumbed his nose at the bard, then said, “Lleld told him what we need, and Kesselandt’s discussing with the other senior members which of the country estates would be best for our needs.”
“When do we find out?”
“Kesselandt sent a messenger to Maurynna earlier. We find out by this afternoon.”
 
Linden waited impatiently for Kesselandt to join them in the solar. The man should be here any moment; then they would learn where they would be staying—and rehearsing—for the winter. He glanced around the room at the other Dragonlords.
Lleld and Jekkanadar bent over a chess board with an unfinished game upon it, studying the pieces. Jekkanadar shook his head.
“I should not want to be White in this game,” he said.
“Ah,” said Lleld. “But what if White did this?” and moved the horse to illustrate her point.
Jekkanadar stroked his chin. “Hm—perhaps. Perhaps …” He fell to studying the board again, his gaze darting this way and that. “But if Black countered with the queen’s mage
here—
”
Lleld crowed, “Then take
this!”
as her hand darted to the board.
I hope they remember where they started,
Linden thought with a grin.
Or someone will be very surprised at the turn their game has taken.
Lleld was not the most conservative of players at the best of times. Judging by the evil glee lighting her face, the little Dragonlord planned a singularly unorthodox strategy for this bout. He caught Taren watching in dismay.
The smile faded as Maurynna entered the room. Something was wrong; he knew it at once. For she chewed her lower lip now and again, something she did only when nervous. She came to stand with him, but said nothing.
“What is it, love?” he asked.
“Temion just warned me that my Uncle Darijen is in a dangerously foul mood over this. Temion heard him say something about not being a ‘peasant to be turned out of his home.’
 
“I suspect that the estate to be given over to us is the one he uses in the winter. It’s a hunting lodge, not all that big as some of the country places go, but it’s in the south, where it’s warmer. Darijen’s the one I told you about last night.” Her lips pressed together.
“Ah, yes—the one with the poisonous tongue.” The one who’d upset Maurynna so much she’d not slept until near dawn. “Try not to let him bother you, sweetheart. He can’t do anything to you. Not anymore.”
She didn’t believe him, any more than she had last night. Darijen’s power over her was too ingrained.
Linden frowned. He wished he could convince her that all would be well. That the old ties of affection still held, yes; but no longer did a newly fledged Dragonlord owe obedience to his or her birth family. That obligation was gone now, replaced by fealty to the ruler of Dragonskeep.
It was a lesson each new Dragonlord had to learn: that the hardest thing of all was to stand up to one’s own family. Kings and queens were child’s play in comparison.
Old habits die hard.
The time-worn adage drifted across his thoughts; cliché though it was, it was still true. So he did the best he could; he slipped an arm around her shoulders and, to distract her, led her to where Otter, Raven, and Taren looked over the drums.
Raven picked up a
zamla
and turned it this way and that. He tucked it under one arm and tapped out a quick rhythm.
“Very nice,” he said. “But why are they so plain? Usually
zamlas
have some decoration.”
“Merris just finished lacing them,” Otter said. “Once we decide which ones we’ll take, I’ll have Merris do ’em up gaudier than a potted peacock playing in a paint pot.”
Try saying that one quickly,
Linden said to Maurynna, turned his head to catch her eye.
Her mouth twitched. It was a start.
“A shame,” Raven said. For once Linden agreed with him. “They’re fine instruments.”
“I know, and Merris will have a fit when I tell him, but it can’t be helped. Remember, we’re traveling entertainers, not court musicians. Gaudy it will have to be.”
“So you’ll have Merris paint your harp as well?” Linden couldn’t help saying. “Scarlet, with lots of gold leaf? Some bright green, too, perhaps.”
Otter turned an outraged glare upon him. “There are,” he announced frostily, “limits.”
Linden chuckled, and felt Maurynna’s shoulders shaking under his arm. Her dark mood was broken, if only briefly. Well enough, then; it was a start.
“Ahem.”
The slight clearing of a throat caught everyone’s attention. They all turned to look.
Kesselandt stood in the doorway. Beyond him, Linden could see some of the other senior Erdons peering in.
Only one claimed his attention: Darijen.
The instant Linden saw the man’s venomous expression, he knew which estate they’d been given—and that it would be long indeed before Darijen forgave them this slight.
 
“What was that?” Tsiru’s friend, another acolyte, demanded of him.
Tsiru finished dribbling a little water between the lips of the man he’d nursed since the attack by the foul creatures from the north. “What was what?” he asked, turning around.
A quick movement at the door. “That!”
“Oh—that’s just Hodai, I’ll wager, come to see how Priest Haoro is doing. Hodai!” he called. “You may come in.”
A dark head peered once more around the door. Tsiru beckoned, and the little Oracle slipped in as quietly as a mouse. With a shy smile at the two of them, Hodai drew closer to the bed until he looked down into the still face of the man upon it. Only the rise and fall of the chest, and the occasional movement of the eyes beneath the closed lids, showed that the priest still lived.
Hodai bent closer, his hands clasped at his breast, and studied Haoro for a long time. As always, Tsiru wondered just what the Oracle looked for.
At last the boy looked up, smiled his thanks, and slipped out as quietly as he had come.
“Hunh—he do that often?”
“Oh, yes—every few days. Kind of touching, isn’t it? I hadn’t realized he was so fond of Haoro,” Tsiru said.
“I didn’t realize
anyone
was fond of Haoro,” his friend muttered.
A grumbling from the bed brought them both around. The priest’s lips moved, but the words—if there were any—were incomprehensible.
Tsiru’s friend jumped to his feet. “Oh, damn! Do you think he heard me?” he asked in an agonized whisper.
“Relax. He’s been doing that lately. Mutters a bit, then goes quiet again. Watch.”
They did and, as Tsiru predicted, the mumblings soon subsided, and Haoro lay upon the bed like a living corpse.
Tsiru cocked his head. “Still, I have to say this—this time I could almost understand words.”
 
As Otter rode through the marketplace on his way to visit Merris once again, he spied Redhawk standing before a stall and talking with the owner, a stout woman in a long, colorful dress in the Assantikkan style. Her wares filled the table behind them, long sashes in a gay tumble of color like a flower garden gone wild. They were almost as bright as their owner.
Ah, hell, Otter thought—he might as well get it over with. Biting back a
sigh, he pressed a rein against Nightsong’s neck. The Llysanyin mare instantly turned and forged a way through the noisy crowd.
Coming up behind Redhawk, he said, “Good day, nephew.”
Redhawk whirled around. The first emotion to cross his face was pleasure; Otter was certain of it. But then he saw Redhawk remember his uncle was one of those responsible for his son’s defection, and the pleasure disappeared.
“Uncle,” he said coolly. “I see you’re in Thalnia again.”
“For a time,” Otter replied with equal coolness.
The stallkeeper looked from one to the other, and wisely retreated into her stall, where she busied herself with pulling more sashes from their storage baskets. She tossed them over her arm, where they hung like rainbow snakes.
The passing crowd jostled Nightsong; she snapped a warning, then braced her sturdy legs.
Redhawk frowned at her. “I’m no expert, but isn’t that an odd color for a grown horse, black body with grey mane and tail? Don’t they usually go all grey?” He peered closer. “And why doesn’t she have a bit?”
“The answer to your questions is: because Nightsong is a Llysanyin,” said Otter.
At Redhawk’s sharp, questioning look, Otter went on, “That’s right, nephew. A Llysanyin bearing a truehuman—makes you think, doesn’t it? And here’s a bit more to think about while you’re about it: her grandson, Stormwind, chose Raven.”
Redhawk went very still.
Leaning down from the saddle so that he didn’t have to shout his words for all to hear, Otter said, “So think twice about disowning the boy, Redhawk. Despite what you seem to think, there’s more in this world than sheep and wool. Much more. Someday you’re going to be damned proud to call Raven your son.”
At a touch of his leg, Nightsong sank down upon her haunches and pirouetted in place, each broad, feathered forehoof stepping delicately. As she paced regally away, Otter turned in the saddle. “My word as a bard on that,” he called.

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