The Last Dragonlord (6 page)

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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: The Last Dragonlord
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Otter nodded. “I did, boyo, and barely had time to warn him. It was pure luck that he heard me yelling in that storm; the wind was howling louder than all the souls in Gifnu’s nine hells.”
“Why didn’t you mindspeak him?” Maurynna demanded. “You can do that, can’t you?”
“Ah, but I didn’t know him well then, remember; it was only the second time I’d met him. And I can’t really mindspeak
Linden, even now. It’s just that if I think hard enough about him—
Here now; haven’t you ever known—just known—that someone was thinking about you?”
Maurynna turned to Raven, knowing he’d be doing the same. “Oh, yes,” they chorused. “We know.”
“Well, then, that’s how Linden knows when I want to talk to him, Rynna. I can’t be too far from him, either, or it won’t work. But to get back to—”
“Linden Rathan killed the evil hag, didn’t he?” Maurynna bounced in anticipation. “He can do anything!”
Otter laughed and went on with the tale … .
Linden Rathan had indeed killed the evil hag. Gods; he’d been her hero for so long … . She blurted out, “Otter—hang the
Sea Mist!
And hang what my family will say! I want to go with you to Dragonskeep.”
There. She’d said it. She waited for the bard to pin her ears back for an idiot. And Otter could do that very well indeed.
But beyond a gasp of surprise, the bard said nothing for a long time. When he did speak, his voice was quiet, concerned. “Rynna, you wouldn’t, not really—would you?”
She gripped the astrolabe so hard it was a wonder the brass didn’t buckle. “Yes. No. I don’t know. It’s just—It’s just that ever since you first talked about it, there’s been a yearning in me to see Dragonskeep, to meet a Dragonlord, to meet
him.
It’s tearing me in two. I want my ship; it’ll kill me to lose her. But even more I want, I want—oh, gods; I don’t know what I want.”
But she did. She wanted to follow the fool’s dream that burned in her soul.
“Have you spoken of this to any of your crew?”
Maurynna snorted in disgust. “Of course not. I may be mad, but I’m not stupid.”
He laughed at that. “Don’t, then. Because I promise you this, Rynna: I will bring Linden to meet you. However I have to do it, I will.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Otter, is this a joke?”
“No, dear heart, it isn’t. My word as a bard on it.”
He smiled gently at her. She couldn’t speak. Otter loved to
tease, but this he meant body and soul. Tears choked her; she swallowed them.
“Thank you. I’ll be patient, then.” Her voice was husky. She turned to look out over the midnight sea before he could catch a glimpse of the betraying wetness on her cheeks.
When she could, she said, “Do you think I’m wrong? Would I be better off not meeting him? He’s been my hero for so long.. Linden Rathan—he’s not, I mean, he’s not an ass or anything like that, is he?”
Once again Otter made a rude noise. “Of course Linden’s not an ass. Dragonlord or no, I wouldn’t inflict him upon you if he was. Gifnu’s hells, girl, I wouldn’t have inflicted his company upon myself these past forty years!”
Other fears rose to torment her. What if he thought she was an ass? What would she have to talk about with a magical being more than six centuries old?
She buried the first and asked the second.
Otter shook his head. “You’ll find he’s not that different from you, Rynna.”
Puzzled, she asked, “What do you mean?” How could Linden Rathan not be different? He was a Dragonlord, magical, nearly immortal.
Otter paused, as if considering his next words carefully. He said, “Linden told me once that something happens to Dragonlords when they go through First Change. He didn’t know how to explain it beyond ‘we fall out of time.’ My guess is that once they Change, they mature the way a truedragon would—incredibly slowly. To a truedragon, Linden would be considered a babe, even though he’s over six hundred years old.
“He wasn’t that much older than you when he first Changed—only twenty-eight—and many times over the years I’ve forgotten that he was older. True, sometimes I’ve seen something more ancient than I can ever imagine in his eyes, but the next moment it’s gone.”
Flinging a hand up to take in the
Sea Mist
and the ocean all around them, Otter said, “As for what to talk about … Tell him about your ship, Maurynna; tell him about sailing
and what the sea is like in calm and storm. Tell him about making a port for the first time, the patterns of the waves and what they mean, what the gulls sound like at dawn. He’s rarely sailed and he likes learning new things. Don’t be surprised if he asks if he can sail with you someday.”
Maurynna’s head reeled. She couldn’t speak; there were too many things to say at once. Linden Rathan? On board the
Sea Mist?
That would be a dream come true indeed.
 
Sherrine hid behind a pillar. She peered around it, taking care not to be seen and laughed quietly as she ducked back into hiding.
Linden Rathan was descending the stairs. From the way his head turned this way and that, she knew he searched the crowd.
And she had little doubt for whom he searched. She was well pleased with herself. She’d struck just the right note with him: unafraid, bold yet not overbearing, challenging. She’d seen the look in his eyes change from boredom to interest as she’d dared to tease him.
She peeked out once more. He’d paused on the steps. Her gaze roved over him with appreciation. The ceremonial regalia of a Dragonlord suited his tall, powerful frame well. None of the young men she knew would be able to carry off the antique cut of the black tunic, the wide sleeves with their imdagged ends and scarlet silk lining. They’d be laughable even at a masquerade.
But not the tall Dragonlord. He wore it with an unconscious dignity that made him look … She pondered a moment. Dashing. That was it: dashing, like the hero in an old tale.
He was at the foot of the stairs now, ready to plunge into the crowd.
Keeping to the shadows, Sherrine made her way out of the hall. It was not part of her plan that he should find her again this night.
She
would find
him
—and at a time and place of her own choosing. She thought she would enjoy that next meeting.
There was something in his face that she instinctively liked, a kindness in the dark grey eyes.
She shook her head. Bah! She sounded as bad as Tandavi. This dalliance was business. War even, her mother would say; truehuman against weredragon.
Still, she hoped she need not wait long.
Maylin was just taking the
last loaf of bread from the oven in the fireplace when her little sister Kella came running into the kitchen.
“Maylin! Guess what? Guess, guess, guess!” Kella squealed, hopping with excitement.
Untying the apron from her plump middle, Maylin asked, “I can’t even begin to guess, gigglepuss. Tell me.”
“Mama said that since we couldn’t go to watch them arrive the other day, we could go watch the Dragonlords ride up the Processional before we have to help her in the shop! Today’s the first Council meeting.”
The apron sailed across the kitchen, missed its hook on the wall, and slid to the flagstones unnoticed. Maylin whooped and seized Kella’s hand. “Don’t just stand there! We’ll have to run if we want a good spot.”
They yelled their good-byes as they dashed out the door. Laughing in the early morning chill, they ran through the streets of Casna, stopping now and again to rest—but not for long. Their excitement urged them on each time before they’d completely caught their breath.
“I know a good place to wait,” said Maylin, gasping between each word, at one such stop. “Under that big elm, the one where that little street behind the temples meets the Processional. It will be a bit of time yet before they go to the palace, and we can wait in the shade.”
“Yes!” Kella agreed, and was off like an arrow.
Maylin groaned and ran after her. At least it was still cool enough to run; the day had not yet begun its descent into the sultry heat that had plagued the city for the past two tendays.
Still, Maylin was puffing by the time she caught up with
Kella. Taking her sister’s hand once more, Maylin kept her to a slow jog.
Although they made good time, when they reached their goal they found a great many other people had had the same idea. The Processional—the great avenue leading to the palace—was thronged with people as far as Maylin could see.
“Oh, bother,” she grumbled as she eyed the crowd. “Kella, grab on to the hem of my tunic and hold on for all you’re worth.”
Kella seized a double handful of cloth; Maylin plunged into the crowd. She twisted and turned, Kella clinging like a burr, worming a way between the tightly packed spectators. One ill-mannered yokel in farmer’s garb wouldn’t let her pass, although he could easily have seen over her head even if she stood right in front of him. When he turned to leer at her, she thrust her face up at him, eyes wide, making certain that he got a good look at them. He stumbled back from her, making the sign against the evil eye. Maylin seized the moment to slip past him, grinning wickedly.
That’s right, fool—they’re two different colors. And a pox on your ignorance, thinking they mean evil. They simply run in my family.
At last she fetched up against a back clad in scarlet livery; someone pushed her and she jostled the palace guard. The guard turned, frowning. Maylin stared up at him, frightened, Kella hugging her. But frown turned to smile, and the guard said kindly, “Hoy, lasses—little bits like you won’t see nothing over us. Come stand ‘twixt Tully here and m’self. Hurry; here they come.”
“Th-thank you,” Maylin stuttered as the guards shifted to make room for them. She gathered Kella up in her arms so that the little girl could see better and craned her neck to look down the Processional.
The scarlet of palace guards and the blue-and-red of the City Watch lined the great avenue. They held back a crowd that suddenly erupted into happy shouting. Now Maylin could see a scarlet line of palace guards marching abreast down the
avenue. The heads of their upright spears glittered in the sun. Behind them were three figures on horseback.
“Kella! There they are—do you see them?”
Kella nodded vigorously; Maylin hoisted her a little higher. She held her breath as she watched the riders.
Two were men—a smaller one on the right, the taller closest to their side of the street—with a woman riding between them. They looked wonderful in their ceremonial garb.
The small man had brown hair and a thin, mild face. He was slender and altogether most unextraordinary in appearance.
He’s a Dragonlord? He looks like one of Father’s journeymen,
Maylin thought.
The woman had pale blonde hair hanging in a tumble of curls down her back. She was pretty, but with a sharp set to her full red lips that made Maylin think she’d be chancy to cross.
Now what had she heard their names were?
Oh, yes—Kief Shaeldar and Tarlna Aurianne, the soultwinned pair. The other one is Linden Rathan. Won’t Rynna be jealous when I tell her! I do hope she makes port here before this is over.
She shifted her gaze to the one known as the Last Dragonlord as they neared her. Her overwhelming impression was of size: Linden Rathan, like almost every Yerrin she’d ever seen, was tall and broad of shoulder and chest. He was also blond like Tarlna Aurianne, but his hair was the bright gold shared by so many of his countrymen. It was thick and shaggy and hung down to his shoulders.
As the Dragonlords drew abreast of where they stood, Kella began frantically waving, well-nigh,tearing herself from Maylin’s grasp, caroling a greeting in her high, sweet voice.
The sudden movement seemed to catch Linden Rathan’s eye, for he looked straight at them. Kella waved harder. To Maylin’s everlasting astonishment, Linden Rathan smiled and waved back, calling, “Hello, kitten!”
Kella screamed in delight and dissolved into giggles, burying her face against Maylin’s hair and drawing laughter from the crowd. Linden Rathan’s smile grew wider; he winked as he and the other Dragonlords passed.
Soon all they could see of the Dragonlords were their backs. The magical moment was past. Maylin suddenly realized her arms ached. She set Kella down with a groan and tried to shake the pins and needles from them.
Kella jumped up and down. “Did you see, Maylin? Did you see?”
“I certainly did. We’ll have to tell Mother all about how Linden Rathan waved at you,” Maylin said. “And if you grin any harder your face is going to split, gigglepuss.”
“
He
called me ‘kitten,’” said Kella.
“So he did.” Maylin took her sister’s hand and led her through the dissipating crowd. “Don’t forget to tell Rynna about this when she gets here.”
“Will she get here soon?” Kella asked as they wound their way through the streets of Casna. “And I wish Papa hadn’t had to go trading. He would have liked this, too.”
“He’ll be so disappointed he missed the Dragonlords. And I hope Rynna docks here soon; she’d like to see them. But the captain of the other Erdon ship that was here a few tendays ago could only tell us ‘sometime around the solstice,’ so I don’t know.”
Kella asked, “Will we take her to wave at Linden Rathan?”
“We certainly will, small stuff, if he’s still here. And there’s the shop—won’t Mother be surprised!”
 
“I’m afraid,” Kief said as he peeked into the council room through the barely open door, “that this omen does not bode well. My Lord Chancellor of the Council—”
“Wassilor,” Tarlna provided. “Chancellor Wassilor. How unfortunate a combination.”
“Is very long-winded,” Kief finished. “The esteemed council members’ eyes are glazing over.”
“Oh, damn,” said Tarlna. “This is
not
what I’d hoped for.” She scowled at the walls of the anteroom as though wondering how long she’d have to look at them before escaping.
Linden rocked from foot to foot. Oh, bloody damn indeed.
First they had to stand about in this stuffy little room while some pompous ass brayed, then the herald would announce them, giving their human and dragon names, one by one. Then he would present the councii—one by one.
What idiocy. They’d met these same nobles last night. But
now
it had to be done with proper ceremony and formality.
Bother the ceremony. He wanted to get started.
He pushed back his sleeves. Wretched things, always in the way. He wished they didn’t have to wear the regalia for these meetings. He’d had enough of it last night at the welcoming festivities. He’d spent the entire feast waiting for the wide sleeves to fall into the gravy. They usually did; sometimes he thought they had a mind of their own.
And these blasted tight breeches pinched.
He wanted the soft, loose, Yerrin breeches and well-worn boots waiting in his quarters. And a tunic with sensible sleeves.
Yet the black, scarlet, and silver formal clothes were impressive—and necessary. They would remind the council that these were Dragonlords, the ancient Givers of Law, sitting in judgement. Without that reminder, some members would forget that the three before them were not the mere two decades or so old that they appeared.
He shifted his heavy torc of rank, fingering the dragon-heads with their ruby eyes. His clan-braid snagged on the links of his belt. He pulled it free.
Damn these clothes.
Tarlna hissed, “I hope you’re more dignified when you’re out there. You’re fidgeting like a child!”
She stalked him, drawing breath to continue. Linden retreated into memories of the night before, allowing Tarlna’s scolding to wash over him unheeded. He’d grown expert at it over the centuries. Instead, he wondered when he’d see Sherrine again. Not one moment before she wanted him to, he’d wager. The memory of her perfume and laughing eyes came back to tease him. Tarlna continued venting her annoyance with the delay on him.
The herald’s voice rang out from the other room. “My
lords and ladies—His Grace, Dragonlord Kief Shaeldar!”
Kief opened the door and made his entrance.
The herald’s cry of “Her Grace, Tarlna Aurianne!” cut Tarlna’s lecture short. She limped off.
Linden heaved a sigh of relief. Then the herald called “His Grace, Linden Rathan!” and it was his turn to face the Cassorin Council. He stepped through the door.
This was his first look at the room where he would likely spend much of his time in the next few tendays; they had entered the anteroom from the hallway. It was longer than it was wide, with windows from floor to ceiling along the lowall to his left. The sunlight shone through, making rectangles of light at intervals along the floor.
At the far end was a massive fireplace of black marble. He wondered if they’d ever roasted an ox there; the thing was large enough. The remaining walls were covered with the dark carved paneling that was in every Cassorin room he’d seen so far.
A thought drifted across his mind:
Perhaps there’s a law requiring it.
The heels of his tall, stiff boots clicked on the patterned tiles of the floor. He counted as he passed through the sunlit patches: one, two, three, four, five. The warm sun felt good on his face.
The table was closer to the fireplace than to the door to the anteroom, leaving him a long walk to reach it. Once again he felt on display.
The dancing bear; I definitely feel like the dancing bear.
Kief and Tarlna stood with their backs to him. Curious faces looked past them, watching him. He was able to put names to most of them. He avoided the Duchess of Blackwood’s accusing stare.
To his surprise, young Prince Rann came forward to greet him. It was the first time he’d seen the child since the afternoon of their arrival. He was shocked at the change in only two days. Granted, the child hadn’t looked robust before—but now!
The little boy’s face was wan, with dark circles under the
eyes. For all that he was barely six, Rann moved like a tired old man.
Linden suppressed a frown lest Rann think it meant for him. Instead, he mindspoke the others.
Why is the boy here? He looks ill. A council is no place for even a healthy child!
He has the right to be here, Kief said. After all, it is his fate we are deciding.
If we keep him here, we will be deciding his fate indeed. We’ll send him to join his parents! Blast it, Kief, the boy looks ready to collapse.
Kief made no answer. Linden leashed his anger as the young prince bowed to him. He bowed in return. Then he held out a hand. Murmurs of surprise went around the table at this departure from protocol. Tarlna glowered. He ignored her. Instead he looked down at the young prince, waiting.
Rann studied him in return, his dark brown eyes too serious in his thin face. Then the boy nestled his hand into Linden’s grasp. His eyes now were trusting, unafraid even when his small hand disappeared in Linden’s large one. Linden walked with him to the empty chair by Duchess Alinya’s side at the end of the table by the fireplace. It was far too tall for a child; Linden lifted him into it.
Linden winked as the boy curled up in the cushions. His reward was an impish, gap-toothed grin.
Linden circled the table to take his own seat beside Kief, ignoring the murmurs that followed his passage. He hoped his face betrayed none of his anger.
The herald introduced the men and women seated around the table. Each one bowed as he or she was presented, the claimants for the regency last of all.

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