The Last Dragonlord (30 page)

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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: The Last Dragonlord
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Another frustrating council. By the
gods, why did Lleld have to be right about this, too, Linden thought as he rode home, recalling her warning that regency debates were boring.
Deadly dull is what he’d call them. If he never had to sit in judgement again, the happier he’d be. Of course, it didn’t help that he begrudged every moment until he could see Maurynna again. If only the ceremony were tonight instead of the day after tomorrow.
At least he was free for the rest of the day now. Of course, what would he do with himself now that he couldn’t see Maurynna? He heaved a sigh and saw his escort exchange sympathetic—and amused—glances.
Hmm—this wouldn’t do. He remembered what gossips soldiers could be. He’d been one. Ah, well—they were nearly home and he could go sit by himself in the garden.
But when they reached the house, Linden saw with annoyance that a servant in the brown-and-gold of the Colranes waited in the courtyard.
Now what?
he thought angrily as he dismounted.
Though visibly nervous, the man approached and held out a note. “Dragonlord, I bear a message from the Lady Sherrine and am to wait for a reply.” He hastened to add, “If Your Grace wishes, of course,” when Linden scowled at him.
Linden took the note with no good grace and held it in his hand, debating whether to read it now or later. Then he reflected that later meant this fellow would be hanging about half the day at least. Linden broke the seal and quickly read the contents.
Just as he thought. Another apology from Sherrine and a plea for reconciliation. By Gifnu’s hells, didn’t he make
himself plain enough that day? And did she really think that the wergild, lavish as it was, could erase what had happened?
In a rare fit of ill temper, he crumpled the note and cast it aside. To the man, he said, “Tell your lady that the answer is ‘no.’ And tell her that it will not change. No, leave him.”
The last was snapped at the groom who’d come to take the gelding.
“My lord?” the woman said in surprise.
“I’m going for a ride. Don’t bother gathering the escort, Jerrell. I’d rather be alone.”
Wise man that he was, Jerrell forbore to protest. Linden swung back into the saddle and wheeled the gelding around. He dug his heels in; the horse snorted and jumped. As he exploded through the gate, Linden nearly collided with a rider in Rockfall’s blue-and-orange. But the gelding dodged nimbly and they were off.
As he rode through Casna, Linden wondered where he might go. Then he remembered the stone circle and the peace he’d felt there. That decided him; gods knew he needed some of that right now. Once more he set off for the sea cliff road.
 
Linden lay in the shade of the trilithon, chewing on a blade of grass. The gelding, bare of saddle and bridle and hobbled nearby, cropped the coarse grass that grew among the standing stones.
He’d been right to come here. Once again he’d felt the magic resting in the stones fill him, washing away his anger. Drowsy now, he let his mind drift where it would.
Images of Maurynna … Of course, he thought with a smile, what else? He refused to dwell on the last memory of her, when she’d sent him away. Instead he recalled climbing about the rigging with her as she’d shown him her ship. He began naming over the things she’d taught him: yard, shrouds, mizzen, boom—what did she call the ropes again? Blast; he couldn’t remember—port, starboard, bow, and stern.
Stern … There was something about sterns … But his sleepy mind refused to supply it, and when he sought for it, he snapped out of his half-doze. He sat up and stretched.
He should probably start back soon, before Jerrell sent out a search party. Linden started to stand and then paused.
Jerrell. Well and well, his errant memory might not want to remember the proper name for ropes aboard a ship, but it presented him with something Jerrell had once said.
Something about another place of magic …
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.
Even if it wasn’t real, it would give him something to do—and an excuse not to return to Casna for a little while longer.
He scooped up the bridle as he straightened. Catching the gelding, he said, “So, gooserump—shall we see if Dragonlords are welcome in this place that truehumans aren’t?”
 
It was a hot and humid ride. And the falrther he got from the coast, the worse it became. But in the distance he could see the tall pines that made up this end of the forest. Linden urged the gelding to a canter. The sooner they were in the shade, the better.
He sighed with relief as they entered the cool of the woods. All around him the thick trunks of the pines towered straight and true to the blue sky above, bare for three or more spear lengths before the branches began. Underfoot many years’ worth of pine needles muffled the sound of the gelding’s hooves, save for the occasional crunch of a pine cone.
As he rode deeper into the forest the trees became smaller and closer together, and underbrush appeared. Nothing yet. He pressed on out of idle curiosity until the bushes became so thick that he decided to turn back. As he did, something caught his eye.
Linden halted the gelding before the tree that had claimed his attention. He whistled softly as he examined the parallel sets of gashes scarring its trunk. Tears of sap bled from the wounds. He touched one golden drop; it was still liquid. He absentmindedly rubbed the sticky resin from his fingers, the aromatic scent of pine filling the air.
“A bear? This close to the city?” he wondered aloud. Not
to mention a damned big one, too; those gashes are shoulderheight to me mounted.
He remembered the boar that had killed Rann’s father. It seemed the woods about the fair city of Casna bred very large animals indeed. He decided to push on a little farther.
After a short while dark patches of nervous sweat appeared on the gelding’s neck and shoulders. It danced under him. Rather than risk an argument—and concerned at the flecks of lather he saw now—Linden rode back a short way. When the horse calmed, Linden tethered it once more and retraced his way on foot, pushing a slow and cautious way through the underbrush.
The deeper into the woods he went, the more uneasy he became. And now the short hairs of the back of his neck rose, the feeling was so strong. He could understand why no one wanted to come here. The feeling of repulsion was well-nigh overwhelming.
Yet weaving through it came a seductive call, something that beckoned him on. He followed it.
The woods ended abruptly. Linden stopped short between two trees, a hand on each, to study what he’d found. He had no doubt this was what he’d been hunting. Magic had been worked here—old magic, and dark magic. Where he’d felt the magical resonance of the stone circle as a pleasant hum, this made his bones ache. He set his teeth against it.
And only magic would account for the way the woods ended as if at a wall. Not even the underbrush penetrated the clearing before him; the edge was as cleanly drawn as though with a knife.
A slope rose before Linden; there seemed to be something on the top of the low hill. To either side the forest curved around the base of the hill. Everything was so patently unnatural it set his teeth on edge, from the ending of the forest to the precise cone shape of the hill. It shouted of magery. That so much effort had been taken spoke of the place’s importance to someone.
But to whom? And why?
Linden asked himself as he left the shelter of the trees.
At once the ache in his bones became worse. Clenching his fists, Linden set out to investigate his discovery.
First he circled the base of the gentle hill. The circle was large; almost large enough, he noted absently, for him to Change. Not that he would want to do so. The magic here was inimical to his own; the pain he felt now would be nothing compared to what he’d feel if he made himself vulnerable by Changing. He shuddered at the thought of it.
The grass carpeting the slope was short; it made him think of the lawns in the palace gardens. It seemed someone didn’t fancy trudging through long, dew-laden grass to get to the top of the hill.
Definitely not some hedge-wizard, then—not that one would be likely to have the kind of power that’s been used here. This is the work of a trained—and damned strong—mage. Yet a mage of that caliber usually attaches him—or her—self to a royal patron, and I’ve heard no talk of any mages in Casna.
That such a mage might be about—and hidden—did not bode well.
Bloody, bloody damn. Please don’t tell me Lleld was right after all. Ah, well. Best look over the crown of this cursed hill; there seems to be something up there.
Linden strode up the slope. The ache dug dark fingers into the very marrow of his bones now. The pain increased as he came closer to the summit; he had to stop and deliberately shut his mind to it. Yet there was still that seductive thread he’d felt before running through the pain. Linden ground his teeth and continued to the top.
The summit of the hill was flat, as though a giant sword had neatly sliced off the crown, and no grass grew upon it. It was empty save for a large rectangular stone that rested on a base of smaller, square-cut stones, rather like a tabletop. Linden eyed it as he circled the packed earth of the summit, careful to walk sunwise. He estimated the stone to be some seven feet long and a good yard wide; the top edge was nearly waist-high to him. The stone was smooth; too smooth to be
natural, yet he could make out no marks from tools upon it.
It’s an altar,
said a voice at the back of his mind.
And old—very, very old.
Linden had no doubts what this altar had been used for in the past. Sickened, he forced himself to go closer until he stood next to it.
The power within the altar beat at him. As he’d suspected, this was the focus of the dark magery that tainted this clearing. But even as it repelled him, the darkness called to him, honey-sweet, magic seeking magic. His will lulled, Linden stretched his hands to the altar.
From deep inside him, Rathan bellowed
No!
He pulled back, disoriented by the sudden surge of his dragonsoul. But Rathan was right; he hadn’t the magic to fight this if ensnared. He was no trained mage. He backed away until his feet found the slope, then turned and skidded and slid down the hill.
The altar called to him to return, trying to wind the threads of its magic through his, to bind him to it. Linden closed his mind to the stone’s beckoning.
He was almost at the beginning of the woods when the stench of rotting meat assailed his nostrils. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead and back. Linden stopped short and spun around, looking everywhere at once. He knew that smell. All at once he was sixteen again and terrified.
Then Linden caught hold of himself and shook his head.
Fool! It’s not Satha—it can’t be! With your own eyes you saw him crumble to dust more than six hundred years ago. Either you’re imagining that smell or it’s some dead animal nearby.
Still, he wished for his sword. If it
was
Satha, the undead Harper might recognize the blade, if not the wielder. After all, Tsan Rhilin had rested in the same tomb with him for the gods only knew how long before Rani had awakened him.
He waited, but the stench was gone. Not a dead animal, then, or he’d still smell it. Had he imagined it? He must have—he
had
to have imagined it. His mind refused to contemplate otherwise.
He was only a Dragonlord, after all—not a god. And even Dragonlords could still fear demons from their pasts. Linden turned his back on the clearing and ran.
By the time he reached the gelding, who was munching on a bush it could just reach, Linden had convinced himself that, if not a figment of his imagination, the stench was nothing more than some dead animal, perhaps even a kill of the bear who had gouged the tree. The gelding’s feckless unconcern reassured him. Surely if anything were wrong this stupid beast would have ripped free and run for home.
Linden pulled as many leaves and twigs out of the gelding’s mouth as he could, ruefully noting that he owed the groom in charge of the tack an apology.
“Nothing worse than a filthy bit, gooserump,” he grumbled after he was back in the saddle. The very ordinariness of this problem soothed him. “And you’ve done a fine job of fouling yours.”
He found a path that ran in the direction he wanted and turned the gelding onto it, recalling in his mind the lay of the forest and the lands between it and Casna.
It was imperative that he return to the city as quickly as possible.
 
Dusk was falling by the time he reached the city once more. As soon as he reached his house, Linden retired to his sleeping chamber with orders he was not to be disturbed. Still shaken by what he’d seen and felt in the woods, he threw himself into a chair and reached out with his mind.

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