The Last Dragonlord (4 page)

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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: The Last Dragonlord
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Sherrine swept into her bedchamber
, surprised at the dim light within. Her gown clung damply to her. She was sticky with the heat, had a headache, and wanted a bath.
“Tandavi,” she called.
No answer.
Sherrine frowned, a tiny, becoming frown that she’d practiced many times before her mirror. Where was that fool maid? Nothing had been straightened since she’d left. Even the brocade curtains still hung across the many-paned windows.
She forgot herself and scowled at the unmade bed with its linen sheets tossed about, the gowns she’d tried on and discarded still scattered over the embroidered cushions of the chairs. The dark green silk, one of her favorites, lay crumpled on the tiled floor. Sherrine picked it up and flung it onto a chair.
Stupid cow. How dare she leave without—oh, bother. I did tell her she could go to the field, the silly chit was so excited about seeing Dragonlords.
Sherrine sniffed, glad that she was above such idiocy. Since the arrival of the messenger yesterday with the news that the Dragonlords had broken their journey just north of Casna, all she’d heard from anyone was Dragonlords, Dragonlords, and yet more Dragonlords. Tandavi was as bad as any of the fools at court.
Grumbling, Sherrine yanked her pale blue linen gown over her head, allowing it to fall to the floor. Let Tandavi pick it up. Dressed only in her fine lawn undergown, she sat on the featherbed and kicked off her satin slippers.
The fuss when those empty-headed ninnies had caught
sight of the man the red dragon had Changed into! No doubt Tandavi would come back singing the praises of Linden Rathan as well.
A small voice at the back of her mind said,
Ah, but he was handsome, wasn’t he?
She considered that as she threw back the lid of the carved box on the table by her bed. Catching up the small lavender-filled headache bag within, she held it to her nose. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, the scent soothing her.
A pity he was a Dragonlord. Not that that put her off—rather the contrary; Sherrine did not share her mother’s fanatical devotion to the Fraternity of Blood. To her, the Fraternity was merely a road to power.
She recalled her first glimpse of Linden Rathan: tall, with bright blond hair to his shoulders. It was only when he’d turned that she’d seen the clan braid, the long, braided lock of hair at the nape of the neck that a Yerrin man never cut.
Sherrine imagined running her fingers through the unbound length of it. She smiled; she’d always had a weakness for handsome, fair-haired men. And Linden Rathan was handsome despite the birthmark. A dalliance with him might be amusing. And to score such a coup on the other women at court! The idea appealed to her.
How unfortunate that she couldn’t act upon it. Her mother would have a fit. And that would be tiresome.
A timid knock broke her reverie. The door edged open; Tandavi peered around it.
“My lady,” the maid began. “I’m sorry; I thought I could get back before—”
Sherrine was in no mood to be understanding. “How dare you leave my chamber in this con—” She broke off at unaccustomed sounds from below. Frowning, she strained to hear.
The house steward’s voice, surprised but respectful; the click of bootheels on the tiles—more than one man, she thought—and the soft hiss of satin slippers; a low rumble of voices crossing the common room. She recognized the woman’s voice.
And what is Mother doing here, in the city house? She’s staying with Prince Peridaen. Why didn’t she go back there? Ah, gods; don’t tell me they’ve quarreled and she’s come back.
Annoyance flared. Since her mother had taken to staying with the prince at his estate across the river, Sherrine had been mistress of the Colranes’ city house. She’d come to think of it as her own. She didn’t relish yielding control now to her mother. And her mother would accept nothing less.
The other voices. She thought she could guess who they were. A meeting, then, before going on to the palace.
And with Dragonlords in Casna, there was only one reason for her mother, Prince Peridaen, and Peridaen’s ever-present steward to be conferring.
This was Fraternity business.
And they hadn’t thought to include her—in her own house!
Sherrine dug her fingernails into her palms, seething at the slight. Then she smiled, the merest stretching of tight-pressed lips. Since she was the lady of this house, she should play the charming hostess, shouldn’t she?
Sherrine beckoned to Tandavi. “Fetch me a basin of cool water and a fresh gown. I must greet my guests.”
 
As he was escorted to the city house one of the nobles had put at his disposal, Linden thought over what they’d learned so far.
Prince Peridaen, the brother of the late queen, had been away for some time traveling in Pelnar, and had returned to Cassori only a few days after his sister’s death.
Good timing,
Linden thought wryly. It had certainly inconvenienced his rival, Beren, Duke of Silvermarch, the young Prince Rann’s other uncle.
The uncle who, although invited, had not been on the barge that day. More good timing.
In the normal course of things, Peridaen would have assumed the regency without question. But it was Beren who had the warrant naming him regent to Desia’s children should ill befall her and her consort.
But not one of the Cassorin Council had known of the warrant’s existence until after Queen Desia’s death. Yet from what little Linden had overheard so far, most agreed that the document was indeed in the late queen’s hand.
Caution on Desia’s part? Or trickery on someone else’s?
 
Sherrine approached the study. A servant bearing a tray laden with a flask of wine and four goblets followed. Voices murmured beyond the door. Without a pause, she opened it and entered.
Her head held high, she crossed the patterned tiles to the table that dominated the center of the narrow room. Surprised—and angry—faces turned to her. She had guessed rightly who would be here: her mother the baroness, Prince Peridaen, and Lord Steward Kas Althume. Before any of them could speak, she swept the prince her deepest, most graceful courtesy. Another for her mother, a lesser one for Althume.
At her gesture the servant entered. He set the tray upon the cherrywood table. Sherrine dismissed him and poured the wine herself. “I am sorry, my lords, my lady, that you were not served before this. The servants were derelict in informing me that I had such honored guests.
“And I apologize for coming late to this meeting; I would not have you think me lacking in dedication to the Fraternity.” She took a seat at the end of the table opposite Prince Peridaen, fluttering her lashes at him, enjoying her mother’s obvious annoyance. Peridaen nodded benignly at her.
Now admit—if you dare—that you had meant to keep me out of this.
Anstella snapped, “And what makes you so certain this is Fraternity business, girl?”
Sherrine said nothing, letting her look speak for her:
Don’t be stupid, Mother.
Prince Peridaen raised one elegant eyebrow. His hand covered his mouth. Sherrine was certain he hid a smile.
She looked down, feigning modesty. “May I ask what you were discussing? I wish to learn more of the ways and wisdom of those greater than I in the Fraternity.” She gazed at
the prince, letting her face fill with awe, before looking down again. She watched the others through the curtain of her lashes.
Vain as always, Peridaen took her bait. “We discussed the feasibility of trapping one of the Dragonlords by magic.” His glance strayed to Althume.
From the corner of her eye, Sherrine caught the flash of Kas Althume’s hand cutting Peridaen off. The prince fell silent.
The sight nearly startled a gasp from her. To see the Prince of Cassori, who demanded every courtesy and mark of respect due his rank, meekly accept an order from his steward was unfathomable.
Therefore, things were not what they seemed. She wasn’t stupid, whatever her mother said to the contrary. Anstella of Colrane simply refused to acknowledge that her daughter—and chief rival as court beauty—might in any way equal her. Sherrine was content to let her mother keep her illusions—for now. She considered what she knew of the man sitting to the prince’s left.
Ever since the prince had returned from his travels, the mysterious Althume had accompanied him everywhere. The tale at court was that he was a Pelnaran noble, a friend of Peridaen’s, down on his luck and given a stewardship.
If so, I’m a scullery maid.
Aloud she asked, “Magic? To what end?”
Anstella made an impatient gesture. “What do you think? The Fraternity wishes to know more about them. We need to discover their weaknesses—they must have some.”
Sherrine stifled a sigh. The Fraternity always wanted to know more about Dragonlords. The time never seemed ripe, however, for the Fraternity to act on their knowledge. She doubted they ever would; like bards and Healers, Dragonlords were the chosen of the gods. To harm any of them was to be cursed for eternity, even if one escaped punishment from one’s fellow men—which very few did.
It was all so dull. But thoughts of the Fraternity could be dismissed. She wanted to know what these three were plotting.
If she could turn that plotting to her own ends …
Peridaen said, “Linden Rathan is the only Dragonlord without a soultwin. I had joked earlier about a love philter—”
This was a gift from the gods. “There is no need of a love philter,” Sherrine said. “If, as you say, the tall Dragonlord has no soultwin, surely he is lonely.
“Am I not my mother’s daughter, my lords? Her very image I am told. And you would not deny her loveliness, would you? Bards have sung of it.” She favored her mother with a smile that had no mirth, knowing how it galled AnsteMa—who was without blemish—that her daughter should be held her equal in beauty.
Abandoning all pretense of modesty, Sherrine continued, “Think you this lonely Dragonlord will refuse a dalliance with the most beautiful young woman at court? I will ensnare him, learn all that I may from him, find out how we may strike at them.”
She folded her hands and waited. She had no doubt of her ability to do as she’d said.
“Of all the stupid … ,” Anstella began.
Expected though they were, the words cut her. She wished that for once her mother would bestow her ungrudging approval. But as much as she desired it, this time it was not her mother’s approval that was of vital importance.
It was the prince’s approval that she needed—and still more, she suspected, Althume’s. While her mother and Prince Peridaen argued, Sherrine studied the supposed steward’s profile as he traced a pattern with one long finger on the table.
He was thin to the point of gauntness; his heavy-lidded eyes looked bored, even sleepy. Light brown hair winged back from his temples, falling straight to his shoulders. His nose was straight with flaring nostrils.
His clothes, as always, were somber—dark gray and green—and conservative in cut. Not for him the more fantastical parti-colored tunics of the court dandies. He dressed, Sherrine decided, to remain unobtrusive; there was nothing about him to catch one’s eye, to imprint him in one’s memory.
He had made only one mistake in his chosen role: the quality of the cloth from which his garments were cut. It was far too expensive for a man supposedly living on the prince’s charity; Sherrine knew Peridaen was not
that
generous.
She found it an interesting error. Unconscious vanity? An unwillingness to sacrifice those luxuries he considered his due? She would find out in time; for now she knew the man was more than he seemed.
As if to confirm her speculations, Althume shifted in his chair. Immediately her mother and the prince ceased their debate and turned to him.
He murmured, “We’ve nothing to lose if she doesn’t succeed.” He rested his chin on his steepled fingers, looking thoughtful.
The baroness opened her mouth as if to argue. Althume glanced at her, however, and she shut it with a snap.
That impressed Sherrine more than anything she had yet seen of the man.
Peridaen said mildly, “Hmm. True, Kas, but … We appreciate your unselfish sacrifice, my lady, but if upon thinking further about it you find it repellent and wish to withdraw—”
The memory of Linden Rathan’s face came back to her. She almost laughed aloud. Sacrifice? Now she could have what she desired while advancing her status in the Fraternity. She congratulated herself on her cleverness.
“For the sake of the Fraternity, my prince, anything may be endured,” she murmured.
The prince looked again to the other man. Althume shrugged and nodded. The fire in her mother’s eye boded ill for someone, but Sherrine knew the older woman dared not forbid her now. She’d won.
Woe to the first servant to cross my lady mother
, she thought with mock sympathy.

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