The Last Dragonlord (26 page)

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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: The Last Dragonlord
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Gevianna
listened at the door
to Rann’s sleeping chamber. The boy had taken forever to fall asleep this night; the excitement of the young sea captain’s injury and his unbounded delight in the scarlet coldfire had conspired to keep the boy awake much later than usual.
But now there were no longer any mutterings from the room; Rann had evidently finished whatever bedtime story he sent himself to sleep with most nights. She eased the door open. Still no sound.
Good. Now to see if my idea will work.
She went in quietly.
The boy lay sprawled across the bed. He snored, tiny, child-sized snorts and snuffles. She pulled the sheet he’d kicked aside over him once more and smiled. The boy was an endearing little mite. If only things had been different … .
But she was not here to gaze fondly upon her charge. What she wanted bobbed a handsbreadth or two above the foot of the bed, lighting the dark room with a faint crimson glow.
She undid the ribbons that held the little sewing basket to her belt. Pulling lid and bottom apart, she crept up upon the coldfire as craftily as though she hunted a timid rabbit. The coldfire did not retreat at her approach. She reached out slowly, carefully …
A moment later it was hers. If she held the basket up to her eye she could see the red glow through the tight weave, but otherwise it looked like an ordinary round basket of the sort many of the castle women used to hold their embroidery needles and threads. She tied the ribbons to her belt once more. She would have to be quick about her errand; by Duchess Alinya’s orders, Rann wasn’t to be left alone.
Let us see if this is enough to redeem me in the baroness’s
eyes,
she thought as she left Rann’s chambers and made her way to Prince Peridaen’s. She bit her lip, remembering the tongue-lashing that had been her lot for missing the picnic.
The farther she journeyed from Rann, the more nervous she became. If someone should find out she’d gone …
I hope that I don’t have to search all over for Prince Peridaen’s steward.
She rounded a corner and saw one of the servants she’d been told she could trust to run errands.
Thank the gods.
She called, “Ormery—I need a … favor, if you please.”
Ormery came alert at once; he had recognized the sentence and its phrasing. Without further ado—and with a great deal of relief—Gevianna gave him the sewing basket. “Please give this to Prince Peridaen’s steward. I must go back.”
Her errand done, Gevianna ran back to the young prince’s chambers.
“Rann?” she called softly as she let herself in. No answer. She sent up a prayer of thanksgiving to the gods as she sat down. No one was the wiser for her absence.
 
“Gevvy? Where’s my coldfire?”
The sleepy plaint brought Gevianna into Rann’s chamber the next morning. “Is it gone? I guess it burned out in the night. I’m sorry, Your Highness. But come along now; it’s time for your tonic, Rann, dear.”
Sherrine held herself stiffly erect
as she rode into the courtyard of Linden’s residence. She looked neither to the right nor to the left, ignoring the speculative glances of the groom who came to take her horse, the servant who helped her to dismount.
So no doubt the tale of her falling out with Linden was known to all Casna by now. Her jaw clenched at the thought of the servants gossiping amongst themselves and the news sent flying to the ears of their masters and mistresses. She would wager Niathea laughed herself sick even now.
Drawing a deep breath as she approached the front door, Sherrine made herself walk with a measured dignity. But happier memories flooded her and nearly broke her resolve. Blinking away tears, Sherrine swept through the door as the house steward opened it.
“Good day, my lady,” he said. Like the others, he did not look directly at her. “If you will follow me, please, His Grace will join you shortly.”
He led her to a room that she’d never seen before, small, with only a few chairs and a desk, and left her there. Not a comfortable room, or even an intimate one despite its size. It had the impersonal air of a place used only for work, where one went over the household accounts or some such thing, and then left for more congenial surroundings.
She stood in the center of the room and clenched her fists. It was an insult to send her here. Dragonlord or not, how dare he? And all for the sake of a common trull who dared look above herself! Her breath caught in a sob. Perhaps, just perhaps, she could convince Linden that it was all a mistake. She could forgive him his angry words last night, the humiliating
summons to attend him, cursing herself even as she thought it. To humble herself so would not be an easy thing. But surely he felt some of what she did.
The door opened quietly behind her; as if the thought had summoned him, Linden entered the room. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, one designed to melt him with its mute appeal. But even as she turned, she guessed the game might already be lost.
The Linden that towered over her was not the one she knew, indulgent and easygoing, as ready to laugh at himself as at a witty remark. This new Linden was cold and withdrawn, more imperious than any king—the Dragonlord she had been taught to hate.
But she still had a mission—and her heart—at stake in this game. She would play until the end.
“Linden,” she said. The tremor in her voice was real, as was the tear that slid down one cheek.
Yet the ice did not melt from the grey eyes. “My lady Sherrine,” he said. “Perhaps you will explain your actions of yesterday evening to me. I thought we had an understanding that neither of us was bound to the other. I have not interfered with your other private doings—yet you dared interfere with mine.”
She was frightened by a rage she sensed being held in check, though Linden did nothing more than stand, big hands tightly gripping his belt, staring down at her.
“She is only a commoner,” Sherrine began feebly, her pretty words and wit fleeing before his silent fury. “She has no rank. Surely—”
“Rank? Do you truly think that excuses your actions, my lady? The other man you have been dallying with—”
Sherrine stopped herself a moment before blurting out that there had been no other man; it was only a tale to throw him off the scent if he became suspicious of any necessary absences. If she was to have any hope of winning him back, she must remain silent.
Linden continued, “Is his rank equal to mine? No. But I did not hunt him down as you did Maurynna.
“And do you truly think rank matters so much to Dragonlords? Almost all of us began life as commoners—”
Startled, Sherrine said, “What do you mean? Surely you were all royal, or at least nobly born before—”
His harsh laugh cut her off. “Royal? Nobly born? What fool’s tale have you listened to, Sherrine? There are only two of us now alive who were born noble, girl—I’m one. And yet, had I come before you in that rank as a truehuman, you would have scorned me. My father was lord of his holding, true—by virtue of squatting on a tumbled-down keep no one else wanted. He also took to wife the sister of the High Chief’s mistress, she who bore Bram. In the eyes of the local people it gave him standing. To you and the rest of the rank-proud Cassorin nobility I’ve met, he would have been nothing more than an upstart peasant.
“Dragonlords are born farmers and merchants, slaves and traveling entertainers, peasants and charcoal burners; we are the children of fishermen and of weavers. We live those lives until we Change. And we remember them. Perhaps that is why the gods destined us to be the arbiters between nations—we think first of the common people, not of the pride of kings and queens.”
Sherrine was horrified. She had always assumed that the Dragonlords came from the ranks of those gifted by the gods with the right to rule. That entire countries would accept the counsel of a peasant’s brat, that a king would bend the knee to a, a—“Slave?”
Linden nodded, smiling grimly. “Tarlna was one. And Kief was the son of potters. Very good potters; he’s still proud of them.”
He turned away. “I had thought you saw past the rank to the man, Sherrine. It was my mistake—but you made someone else pay the price.
“And there is nothing I can do about it. A Cassorin would never have stood up to you. But Maurynna is Thalnian; like my own countrymen they speak their minds. By Cassorin law you were entirely within your rights to strike her. She is, as you said, only a commoner—but that means nothing to me.
Yet as a Dragonlord, no matter how I feel personally about Cassorin law, I must uphold it. As a man, I can only tell you that it is ended between us. We could have parted friends; you chose otherwise.”
Desperate now, Sherrine was ready to try anything. For the sake of the Fraternity she must not lose her hold over him. She did not want to know what her mother would say to this. And there was the small matter of her heart.
She caught his sleeve; he pulled away. “Linden, please. Forgive me. I cannot bear to lose you.”
Gods help her; it was the truth. Never had she lost her heart before. How had he brought her to this pass? She continued, the words rushing forth like a mountain stream, “I’ll pay a wergild to the girl—as much as though she were royal! I’ll—I’ll even apologize to her. Just say—”
“No, Sherrine. There is nothing between us now, and there will never be again. I do not repeat my mistakes.”
The cold finality of his words was like a slap. Sherrine felt the blood drain from her face. Her heart was a lump of ice in her breast. So—he would truly cast her aside for such a little thing? For the sake of some lowborn wench? How dare he!
She stared at him, saying nothing. Her rage refused to let her speak lest she say too much. Then she turned and stormed out of the room, wrapping cold fury around her like a cloak.
 
The spy had disturbing news.
Althume sat behind his desk in the study of Prince Peridaen’s city home, playing out his role of steward. He inclined his head to the man before him, a man who looked well dressed if not prosperous, a man who would excite no suspicion as he moved through the layers of society in Casna. “Go on,” the mage said.
“Like I said, m‘lord, one of my mates was part of the young lady’s escort yesterday evening. Said she went to some merchant’s house to call out an upstart wench who’d been making eyes at the big Dragonlord. Slashed the girl across the face with her whip, the Lady Sherrine did. Maybe blinded
the wench, Narin said. That’s what upset him so, y’see; it’s one thing to strike the girl, but blinding her was summat else, and all just because the Dragonlord’s got a roving eye. Narin didn’t think that was fair-like.”
The spy paused a moment to eye the sewing basket as if surprised at finding it on the steward’s desk. He continued, “So, anyway, who comes riding in at that moment but Linden Rathan himself. Narin said he’d never seen anyone so angry. Not that the Dragonlord yelled or anything; just got cold as ice to Lady Sherrine and looked like the lord of storms. He told her to attend him the next morning at the fourth hour past dawn and sent her away like a whipped scullery maid.”
“It is now well after the third hour,” Althume said coldly. “Why didn’t you bring this tale to me sooner?”
The man shifted uneasily. “Have some pity, m‘lord,” he protested. “I didn’t run into Narin at the Spotted Cow until well after midnight, and he was drunker than a drowned pig in a beer barrel by then. It took a long time to get all the tale out of him. He rambled something awful, m’lord, he was that upset about the merchant girl. And then I couldn’t find you this morning till you came back here.”
Althume did not look at the innocent-appearing chest behind him—the chest that had arrived from Pelnar this very morning. “I had business to attend to elsewhere,” he allowed. His fingers itched to open the chest once more and gloat over its contents. He schooled himself to unnatural stillness.
“That’s what they told me when I came by earlier. So I went and watched Lady Sherrine’s house for a while to see if aught unusual went on. I was curious-like to see if she’d obey the Dragonlord’s summons, or to see if he’d go and patch things up with her. Don’t think he did, ’cause the grooms was getting the horses ready and they and the other servants standing about looked worried. Daresay they’re afraid their mistress will take it out on them when she gets back.”
“So she intends to obey the summons,” Althume murmured. He steepled his fingers before his face and thought. This was an opportunity not to be wasted. As chancy as a
toss of the dice, but it seemed the very gods played on his side for this round. He’d been pleased enough with the unexpected gift from Rann’s nurse. That Sherrine should have a falling-out with Linden Rathan at the same time a certain precious cargo had arrived might give him the time he needed. Once more the mage resisted looking over his shoulder.
Things happen in threes, the old wives said. A soultrap jewel, Dragonlord coldfire to charge it with—and now this. Did he cast the dice the gods gave him?
Yes. He opened the drawer, pulled out a small bag of silver pennies, and tossed it to the spy, who snatched it out of the air with greedy glee.
“Go,” the mage said. “You’ve done well. For the Fraternity.”
“May their blood flow.” The man returned the ritual answer and bowed himself out of the room.
Althume listened to the man’s footsteps fade as he decided which course he should take. The girl might think she had fooled everyone into believing that it was for the Fraternity’s sake that she dallied with the Dragonlord, but Althume knew better. He had seen the way she looked at Linden Rathan when she thought no one watched. The girl was infatuated with the big Dragonlord.
Althume did not know Sherrine herself well, but in the course of his unnaturally long life he had run across many like her—men or women whose love could turn to hate with an angry word. She would be hot for revenge if she could not talk her way back into Linden Rathan’s bed. How ironic that she didn’t know that all she had to do was wait until she’d Changed.
He went to the cabinet at the other side of the room. Taking the key from a silken cord around his neck, he unlocked the carved doors and removed the silver scrying bowl and the bottle of black ink hidden inside. He set the bowl on a nearby table and filled it. A moment later, having invoked the spells, Althume leaned over the bowl, trying to make sense of the hazy, distorted images that came and went.
But the magic that surrounded the Dragonlords defeated him; he caught only one clear glimpse: Linden Rathan’s face tight with cold anger. Althume involuntarily started back from the fury in the grey eyes that seemed to look into his own.
“Well and well and well,” the mage said softly. “It seems I underestimated you, my good Dragonlord, didn’t I? You’re not as soft as I had thought. There is indeed steel beneath that easygoing exterior—yet even the finest steel may be broken. But how to talk Lady Sherrine into helping destroy you?”

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