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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: The Last Dragonlord
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Prince Peridaen stood up. Sherrine hastened to rise. So did Anstella. Althume did not.
For the second time in less than a candlemark, Peridaen ignored a breach of royal etiquette. Sherrine’s curiosity nearly choked her.
Stroking his beard, Peridaen said, “The Dragonlords will be feasted tomorrow night. I will see that you’re introduced to Linden Rathan. You will see to it that he becomes interested in you.
“We shall talk to you again tomorrow.” He held out his hand to Anstella. “Come, my dear; we must go on to the palace.”
Head bowed, Sherrine dropped a low courtesy as the prince and her lady mother passed. They left the room without a backward glance. She rose.
Althume stood before her.
As her gaze met his directly for the first time, Sherrine’s skin crawled. She had never seen such cold eyes. Her breath caught in her chest. It was as if she’d fallen through ice and was drowning in the frigid water below.
In a whisper like dead leaves blowing across slate, he said, “Remember—this is for the
Fraternity.”
Then he was gone.
She stumbled back to her seat and drank the rest of her wine in a single gulp. She knew now; gods help her, she knew what the man was. Despite the summer heat she shivered. And wondered if she hadn’t been too clever.
“So, you got your way.”
Sherrine rose and turned from her mirror to find her mother standing in the doorway. Tandavi quietly laid the hairbrush down and slunk off to a corner. “Indeed I did, Mother.”
Gods, how that must rankle,
Sherrine gloated inside.
“See that you don’t fail.”
“Why should I? Am I so ugly, then?” Sherrine asked, all innocence. If there was one insult her mother never offered her, it was that.
Her mother studied her for a moment. “Oh, you might catch his fancy for a time. Just until he sees past your face.”
There was a note in the older woman’s voice that alerted Sherrine. “Why, Mother—I do believe you’re jealous.”
Anstella stormed into the chamber, hand raised. But even as she drew it back, she checked herself.
“No, it wouldn’t do to mark me, would it?” Sherrine said. “Not this night.” Victory rushed to her head like strong wine as she watched her mother seethe with impotent fury.
At last her mother managed to say, “Time will see me right.” Without another word Anstella turned and swept gracefully from the room.
“Not this time,” said Sherrine as she sat before the mirror again. “Not this time.” She clapped her hands. “Tandavi! Finish my hair.”
As Tandavi ran the brush through her hair once more, Sherrine laid her plans.
 
Her hands trembled as she fitted the key to the lock of the chest. If Beren found her here, all was lost. Yet all those who
could were at the feast, hoping for a glimpse of the Dragonlords. It was now or never.
There! The lock clicked open. Lady Beryl threw open the chest. To her dismay, it was filled with parchment scrolls. Oh, dear gods—was she going to have to examine each one?
A sound from the hall outside made her jump. She pressed a hand to her breast; beneath it, her heart hammered and thumped wildly. But the noise wasn’t repeated, and no one came in. At last she remembered to breathe again.
This was much harder than she’d thought it would be. But she couldn’t trust anyone else with it. It was too important. Her lord had to have the time.
She only hoped she wasn’t hurting his cause; she’d not discussed her plan with him. She looked in the chest once more. This time she made herself think rationally.
The scrolls, she saw, were tied with different colored ribbons. But only one bore a ribbon of the royal scarlet. This was it, then.
Beryl lifted it gently, shielding her fingers with a strip of silk she’d brought for just this purpose; who knew what magics the Dragonlords had? Could they sense her if she actually touched the parchment itself?
She slid it up one of her long sleeves, between gown and shift, and cradled it against her body.
Now to hide it in the place she had marked days ago, a place where no one would ever find it.
 
Linden heaved a sigh of relief. The interminable feast was finally over and the last Cassorin noble had been presented to them. Now Kief, Tarlna, and he stood on a balcony overlooking the great hall below, talking quietly.
“What do you think?” Tarlna asked.
“It all seems straightforward enough,” Kief said. “This may be just what it seems: a question of who shall be regent, nothing more.” He paused to sip his wine. “Still …”
“Still we keep our eyes and ears open,” said Linden. “I’ve naught to say against that; it’s only good sense.”
“And mingle as much as possible,” Tarlna added. “It’s
amazing what someone will let slip in a conversation at dinner or a hunt, especially when they don’t realize just how sharp your hearing is.”
“That won’t be hard,” Linden grumbled, thinking of how many invitations had been pressed upon him already.
“You, too, hm?” Kief said sympathetically.
“Mm. I’m going to get more wine.” Linden set off, looking about in curiosity.
He’d never seen anything quite like this. Galleries for minstrels, yes; even his father’s small mountain hold had had one. But never before had he heard of a balcony for the guests of honor to survey the room. Here and there were small tables with comfortable chairs set around them. Larger tables held refreshments so that the favored occupants need not brave the crowd below to seek food and drink. At either end of the balcony wide stone staircases spiraled down to the dancing floor.
It was all very elegant, with the carved stonework of the railing, the bright tapestries covering the granite walls, the torches blazing in their sconces of gold.
And it was extremely public.
Every time he or one of the other Dragonlords went to the rail, Linden’s sympathy for the denizens of a wild beast show grew. Half the people in the place seemed to be standing just below, waiting for a Dragonlord to look down. Even from this distance—and despite the music—he could hear the rising buzz of conversation every time one of them approached the rail. He noted glumly that the squeals and giggles seemed reserved for his appearances. As Linden waited for the servant to fill his goblet with spiced wine, he tried to decide whether he felt more like the trained wolf or the dancing bear.
Stop looking so sour,
Kief’s mindvoice said.
Linden growled back,
And why shouldn’t I? You wouldn’t be so smug if they were hunting you as well. But no; they see that you’re with Tarlna and shy off. It wouldn’t be so bad if there were someone else to distract them.
I went through it as well before Tarlna Changed. You’ll
live, little one. It’s nothing; stop making such a fuss.
Kief’s laughter rang in Linden’s mind.
Linden grumbled. He knew Kief thought him silly. But it bothered him that so many women saw only the rank and not the man. He had accepted many long years ago that all too often he was pursued as a lover’s trophy, a conquest to flaunt before rivals.
He accepted it, but he didn’t have to like it.
From the corner of his eye Linden saw Prince Peridaen come up the stairs. Since the elderly Duchess Alinya had retired early, the prince, as the ranking member of the family, was now their host. Linden had noticed that Peridaen and Duke Beren of Silvermarch had been carefully avoiding each other all evening.
Peridaen was flanked by two women, Baroness Anstella of the council on one side, a young woman on the other. The girl’s eyes looked down modestly as she walked. Another man, dressed in sober grey and green, followed them; he looked vaguely familiar.
Linden thought a moment before he recognized the man: Peridaen’s steward. The fellow certainly looked the part; he had a lean face that revealed nothing; his master’s secrets were well hidden behind it. The torchlight glittered on his heavy silver chain of office.
Peridaen and Anstella led the girl to Kief and Tarlna and introduced her to the older Dragonlords. The five of them chatted. The steward stood to one side, awaiting his lord’s bidding.
Linden knew he was next to be introduced to the girl. He groaned, wondering if this one was a giggler. That was better than those who stood before him terrified, as if he might Change and gobble them up. At least he thought it was better.
He waited politely as Peridaen bore down on him, the girl following. He inclined his head, saying, “Your Highness.”
Peridaen made him a small bow. “Your Grace, may I present my lady Anstella’s daughter, Sherrine of Colrane?”
As the girl held out her hand, Peridaen excused himself.
Mentally cursing Peridaen for trapping him like this,
Linden turned his attention to the girl and took the proffered hand, bracing himself for whatever might follow. As she made him a courtesy, he absently noted that she had beautiful auburn hair. The heady scent of wood lilies came to him.
The girl raised her head. Long lashes hid her downcast eyes.
Linden started in surprise. Gods, the girl was breathtaking. He’d seldom seen such beauty. “My lady Sherrine, it is a pleasure to meet you.” He hoped for once the words were more than polite emptiness; it would be a pity if she proved a fool.
Her gaze met his. To his surprise, she neither giggled nor gasped. Instead her slanted hazel eyes held cool amusement. Their look intrigued him. Without realizing it he bent closer.
“You honor me, Dragonlord. I thank you.” Her voice was low, pleasing to the ears.
Was that a laugh he heard behind her words? She took her hand back a moment before he wanted to release it.
“I would welcome you to Cassori, Your Grace—” she tilted her head “—but I’m certain you’ve heard it too many times already this evening.” She smiled then, a mischievous smile that both conspired and commiserated.
He grinned. This girl had spirit. “Perhaps; then again, perhaps not, my lady. If you—”
But someone else, with daughter, niece, or sister in tow, was fast approaching. Linden cursed under his breath.
Sherrine laughed, a sound as delightful as a rippling brook, and made him another courtesy. “
Perhaps,
Your Grace,” she said, her tone gently mocking him, “we shall meet again.”
Sherrine spun away before he could stop her, looking back over her shoulder to arch an eyebrow at him. She disappeared down the other stairs as the Duchess of Blackwood shoved her terrified daughter into his arms.
When he had disentangled himself from the girl and freed himself from her mother’s tenacious grasp, Linden went to look over the rail. For once he was oblivious to the commotion below. His eyes searched the crowd for a mane of auburn hair.
Sherrine was nowhere to be found.
He drank, taking his time to empty the goblet. There had been a challenge in Sherrine’s look as she’d left him, as plain as if she’d spoken it aloud:
You will see me again when I wish it.
Her boldness amused him. So did her challenge; he rather thought he’d enjoy playing her game—and letting her win. Perhaps—just perhaps—it would help to ease the loneliness. He put his goblet down and set off down the stairs.
 
Maurynna cradled the brass astrolabe in her arms. She’d taken her reading long before but couldn’t bring herself to return to her cabin. For the past two nights it had felt like a cage. On the deck, with the familiar emptiness of starry sky and black ocean, her conflicting desires didn’t crowd so close.
By sunset tomorrow they should be far enough to catch the Great Current that would carry them first north, then east along the shores of the northern kingdoms. Next port of call was Casna and whatever decision she would come to there. The thought scared the daylights out of her.
Ever since Otter had told her of his intent to journey north to Dragonskeep, she’d been tormented by a hunger to go with him. To everyone’s surprise—especially her own—she’d proposed leading a trading expedition overland to the north.
You’ve worked so hard to get your own ship, she scolded herself, and at the first chance to see a Dragonlord you’re ready to abandon it. And for what? Otter’s friend might not even be there—Otter admitted as much himself. And even if that friend is Linden Rathan, what’s to say that you’d even like him? Maybe, just maybe, it’s sometimes better to let a dream stay just that.
But … Dragonlords! Especially the Dragonlord from all the tales she liked the best—even if he hadn’t yet Changed in the stories with Rani eo’Tsan and Bram Wolfson.
Maybe this was the time to chase a dream.
She heard booted feet on the deck behind her. Not one of the sailors, then; they were all barefooted. There was only one person it could be.
“Why are you still up, Rynna?” a musical voice asked from the darkness and then Otter stood beside her. His eyes met hers in the faint light of the deck lamp, his head cocked in inquiry. He said gently, “What are you worried about?”
She shrugged to hide her surprise. “Why do you think I’m worried? I—um, I was just thinking how good it will be to see cousin Maylin again. And Kella. She must be a big girl now.”
He made a rude noise. “I’ve known you since you were a child playing with my imp of a great-nephew by the fireside—remember? Believe me; I know when you’re worried. You don’t eat and you stare off into nothing, chewing your lip all the while. Hah! You’re doing it again. Now what is bothering you?”
Memories of childhood came back to her: she and Raven sitting at Otter’s feet as he spun his tales for them before the winter hearth, and so many of them about the Last Dragonlord.
… Raven’s fifth birthday, a time of both great solemnity and great rejoicing. For on this day his hair,
allowed to grow
unchecked till now, was cut off at his shoulders, all save the lock at the nape of his neck that was braided for the first time. As of this day Raven was truly a part of his clan. Maurynna was happy for him, of course, but most of her joy was for the man who had traveled far for this day and now sat before them, for Otter told her stories of her hero.
Raven rocked back and forth in excitement, the firelight glowing in his red-blond curls. “Did you really see the hag before Linden Rathan did, great-uncle?” he asked breathlessly.

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