The Last Dragonlord (11 page)

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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: The Last Dragonlord
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“My mother says it’s ugly.”
Linden bit his tongue. It was not his place to call her mother a fool. “Let’s get dressed,” he said gently. “I shouldn’t keep the others waiting.”
They dressed in silence. As he helped her onto her horse, Linden said, “Would you bring me here again?”
Her smile lit her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “I will. I’d like that. I’d like that very much.”
 
He’d aimed his “arrow” well.
Althume looked up from the scrying bowl. “It worked,” he said.
“Sherrine found him where you told her she would?” said Peridaen. “Oh, well done, Kas, working out which way he’d go once he got to the woods!”
Anstella leaned forward. “And?”
Althume pushed the bowl away. “As I said earlier, it was hard to see very much,” he said. He stood up, hands pressed against the small of his back, stretching. He continued thoughtfully, “It would appear there’s a magic about Dragonlords that prevents their being spied upon. The images become fragmented, blurry. But,” he said in triumph, “it seems Sherrine has the dalliance she—and we—wanted.”
The chill of a mountain
dawn hung over Dragonskeep as Varn and Chailen walked together up to the Keep. To the east the first apricot streaks of sunrise lit the sky. In the distance they could see farmers already working in the fields.
Mist drifted around the patchwork of the small fields of
urzha
tubers and the canals that separated them. The mist rose at night from the sun-warmed waterways and protected the delicate plants from the cold. As always, Varn thought how eerie it looked, seeing his neighbors moving through the fog, disappearing and appearing like wraiths as they jumped from island to island. It was more comfortable to watch the workers in the fields of wheat, oats, and barley, the plants soft gold and green in the growing light.
“It must be quiet for you now that Linden’s gone,” Chailen said.
“Very. And the twins miss their pillow fights.” Varn grinned and said, “I daresay it’s not the same for you.”
Chailen made a wry face. “Very funny. No, it’s not at all quiet in the stables. Shan’s been in a foul temper ever since Linden left. And a stallion that size who’s determined to make life miserable for everyone … Why can’t Dragonlords ride ordinary horses?” he lamented. “Why do they have to ride Llysanyins? The wretched beasts are far too smart.”
Varn laughed as they reached the courtyard. “I’ll help you open the doors.”
“Thanks; they sometimes stick.”
Walking in companionable silence, they crossed the cobbled courtyard of the stables, the only sound the clicking of their boot heels against the stones. When they came to the stable, Varn waited as Chailen pulled back the bolt on the
doors. He could hear the muffled stamps and nickering of the horses and Llysanyins inside. Yawning, he grabbed the iron ring set into the left-hand door. Chailen caught hold of the right.
“Ready?” Chailen said. “Pull!”
The heavy doors stuck on their hinges, then swung ponderously open. Puffing, Chailen said, “I keep forgetting to ask the smith to look at—”
A neigh drowned him out as a heavy weight threw itself on the doors from the other side. The
kir
went flying.
Varn raised himself in time to see a large black form bolt past and disappear from the courtyard. The thunder of hoof beats faded away down the road.
A bitter voice from beyond the other door said, “Llysanyins. Why, by all the gods, do they have to ride thrice-damned Llysanyins?”
Not trusting his legs quite yet, Varn crawled to where the head groom lay on the ground. Chailen sat up, dusting himself off.
“Are you hurt?” Varn asked.
“Only my dignity,” said Chailen. “I ought to be broken back to stableboy. He was too docile last night—I should have guessed then he was planning something.”
“That was Shan, wasn’t it?”
“None other.” Then, with a wicked gleam in his eye that ill matched his innocent expression, Chailen said, “My—won’t Linden be surprised?”
Both kir fell back on the cobblestones, laughing.
 
The three Dragonlords and their escorts rode down the wide avenue leading to the palace. The air hung hot and heavy even this early in the morning. Linden sighed and tugged at the heavy silk of his tunic. This was promising to be a miserable day for wearing the ceremonial garb.
Perhaps he could arrange to lose the second set somehow; then he could wear ordinary clothes every other day while this tunic and breeches were washed and airing. It was a lovely dream and the Lady would have his head if he did it.
Neiranal mountain silk was hideously expensive.
I’ve been thinking,
Kief’s mindvoice said,
about those standing stones you found yesterday. Both Tarlna and I
are
from
the north of Cassori; I for one have never seen them.
It
would be interesting to visit them once this is over. What
do
you think, love?
He glanced at his soultwin.
I would like to see them myself,
she said,
properly escorted, of
course.
She cast Linden a withering glance. He shrugged. Her nostrils flaring in annoyance, she went on,
I wonder who built it and why, and if there are any more.
Linden said,
Let’s ask.
“Captain Jerrell,” he said aloud. “Yesterday when I rode by myself I came across a circle of standing stones overlooking the sea. Do you know anything about them?”
Though Jerrell looked surprised—Linden sympathized with him; the question must have seemed to come out of nowhere—the guard said, “Very little, Your Grace. No one knows who built it or why; it’s not unlucky or anything like that. There are even some who say it’s a lucky place.”
Linden nodded; that fell in with what he’d felt among the stones. “Go on—any more? I’ve, ah, an interest in such things.”
The captain looked wary. It was plain he considered any sort of magery as something best avoided. “That’s as much as I know about it, Your Grace. It’s lucky—not like the other spot in the woods. Leastways, the spot that the stories say is in the woods. No one I’ve ever heard tell of has found it; may not even be real.
“That place is said to be cursed; the old folk say it’s bad luck even to speak of it. Good thing you didn’t stumble upon that one, my lord, if it really does exist. Straight inland from the stone circle as the crow flies, it’s supposed to be, like it was deliberate. And whether it’s real or just moonshine, no one goes near that part of the forest if they can help it. People just don’t feel welcome there.”
Linden asked, “How do you know of it, Jerrell?”
The soldier grinned. “My granther used to scare me with
stories about it, my lord. All about the horrible bogles and such that are supposed to haunt it. When we were sprats my mates and I used to dare each other to go there at night; good thing it was too far away—or we’d’ve had to find it! Now and again more stories about it crop up.”
The three Dragonlords looked at each other in speculation.
Did you feel anything like that?
Kief asked.
Indeed, no. In fact, the part of the woods I found myself in felt most welcoming.
He must have sounded smug, for both Kief and Tarlna raised eyebrows at him, murmuring “Oh?” and then catching each other’s eyes.
Linden tried not to smile.
I met Lady Sherrine of Colrane while riding. We had a picnic at her favorite spot in the woods.
A picnic,
Tarlna echoed blandly.
Of course.
Kief hid a smile behind his hand. Linden swore he heard a snicker.
Then Tarlna said aloud, “You’ll make your other lady jealous, Linden.” She nodded toward the side of the avenue.
Linden blinked in confusion. “My other—? Ah—are we here already?”
He looked over to where a huge elm tree stood alone at the intersection of the main avenue and one of the side streets. Two girls waited beneath it; he’d seen them most mornings on his way to meet with the council. From their dress he guessed they were from a well-to-do merchant or artisan family. He missed them the mornings they weren’t there; they were the only faces he recognized in the masses that lined the street every day to see the Dragonlords pass. They stood out from the crowd somehow.
As usual, the elder—a plump girl of fifteen or sixteen, he guessed—held up the younger so that she could see more easily. With their matching brown curls and snub noses, they were obviously sisters.
The little girl caught sight of him and waved. He waved back, returning her grin. And as she had every morning, the child dissolved into giggles; her sister set her down and
waved. Though he turned in his saddle, Linden lost sight of them in the crowd as the procession continued along the avenue.
“I wonder who they are,” Linden said to no one in particular.
Kief shrugged. “I doubt you’ll ever find out; they’re not likely to ever be at the palace, are they?”
“No,” Linden agreed, thinking,
And a good thing, too; I wouldn’t wish that cesspit of backstabbing on anyone, let alone two sweet-faced children.
He’d just have to settle for waving at them each morning—and envying them the simplicity of their lives.
Nethuryn looked up from his
scrying bowl and groaned. Pol had found his trail once more; he would have to run.
But where? It seemed no matter where he fled, Pol tracked him down, barely one step behind. And he was so tired; even so small a use of what was left of his magic left him weak. He looked around his current refuge in despair, running his fingers through his long white beard.
The room was as shabby as the inn it was part of. Nethuryn was glad of Merro; the mice now gave this room a wide berth. It was the only bright spot he could see in a sea of troubles.
Where could he go next? Kers Port? Canlyston? Where?
Where could he hide himself and the last bit of real magic left to him?
Merro pounced on something in the filthy rushes. It squeaked. Poor little mouse. Probably it was just in from the country and hadn’t heard—
Gods, what a fool he’d been! Of course Pol found it easy to track him; Kas knew him too well, knew all his habits. Habits that an old man would find hard to change.
“I’m a city mouse, Merro,” he told the cat excitedly. “I always have been.”
Merro looked up from the paw that pinned his supper to the floor. He cocked his head at his master. “Mrrow?”
“A city mouse and Kas knows it! So we’ll do just what he won’t expect—we’ll become country mice!”
 
Althume let himself into the study where Peridaen and Anstella sat at a game of chess. Seeing that they were intent on their game, he went to the window overlooking the grounds of Peridaen’s river estate. For a moment he stared out into
the darkness. Then he pulled the window hangings shut.
Peridaen looked up. “Afraid of spies?”
Althume shrugged. “It’s possible. After all, we have one in the older Dragonlords’ household. Why shouldn’t Beren or someone else have one here?”
Anstella moved a piece. “Checkmate,” she said. As Peridaen studied the board, she continued, “A pity that Linden Rathan decided to stay in town. We had such a nice estate picked out for him here.”
Grumbling, Peridaen laid his king on its side. “Where we could have wormed in a spy, just as we did in Duriac’s household. But no, dear Lady Gallianna—and Beren’s supporter—had to offer him her city house.” He paused. “Stupid cow.”
Anstella laughed. “Another game, Peridaen? No? But gentlemen—we do have a spy in Linden Rathan’s household.”
“Who?” they asked together.
She smiled. “Sherrine. Even as we speak, she’s with him. He invited her to dine with him this evening. And I shall be most surprised—and disappointed—if we see her before morning.”
 
Sherrine sat up, her hair falling over her breasts. She leaned over Linden, who lay on his back on the bed. “Surely, Linden, you can answer this one! Again—you say you like to dance, yet you won’t. Or not very often. Why?”
He chuckled and caught her nipple between thumb and forefinger. She gasped as he rolled it between his fingers. “Stop that,” she said, her voice husky. “You’re trying to distract me.” She slapped his hand—gently.
He rested his hand on her hip. “Because I’m afraid you might be offended at the answer. And yes, I’m trying to distract you. It’s fun.” He grinned at her.
“Beast,” she said. “Do you mean I’m a bad dancer?”
“No, not at all. It’s just that, well, you’re too short for me, little vixen. Not that it matters in many things,” he slid his hand back up to her breast, “the important things, but it is uncomfortable for dancing. All the women here are too short.”
“We are not.
You
are too tall.” She kissed him and straightened. The next words stuck in her throat.
Yet she had to ask them. Her mother would be furious if she didn’t. Every time she returned from spending time with Linden, her mother badgered her for whatever information she’d gleaned. And every time her mother called her a fool for not learning more. It galled her beyond belief to meekly accept her mother’s mockery.
As if she could do any better!
But the Dragonlord had chosen the daughter, not the mother. During every tirade Sherrine smugly congratulated herself for that as she kept her silence.
Still, she had to have some information to pass on. So she put on her most innocent look and asked, “Is it true that Dragonlords are immune to magic?”
“Sherrine!” he said, laughing. But there was also a note of annoyance she’d never heard before. It quelled her. “You’re more curious than any cat, ferret, or even bard could ever be!” He rose from the bed, stretching. “I want more wine; do you?” A ball of coldfire blazed up in his hand. He tossed it into the air.
She gasped and jumped. This was something she couldn’t get used to; each time it startled her anew. “Yes,” she said, though she didn’t. She watched him cross the room to the table. The coldfire cast rippling shadows over his body, glinting on the narrow clan braid that fell to below his buttocks. She watched the big muscles of his legs bunch and slide under his skin.
She bit her lip; she’d annoyed him. Well and truly she’d annoyed him. She saw it in his walk, the set of the wide shoulders.
A pang of unaccustomed remorse took her. It suddenly felt low, this pumping him for information. Maybe it would be best to let some other woman of the Fraternity betray him.
Then he turned, offering her a goblet, and smiled at her. Her breath caught in her throat. And she knew she’d never give him up to another woman.

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