The Last Dragonlord Page 10

  Varn laughed as they reached the courtyard. “I’ll help you open the doors.”

  “Thanks; they sometimes stick.”

  Walking in companionable silence, they crossed the cobbled courtyard of the stables, the only sound the clicking of their boot heels against the stones. When they came to the stable, Varn waited as Chailen pulled back the bolt on the doors. He could hear the muffled stamps and nickering of the horses and Llysanyins inside. Yawning, he grabbed the iron ring set into the left-hand door. Chailen caught hold of the right.

  “Ready?” Chailen said. “Pull!”

  The heavy doors stuck on their hinges, then swung ponderously open. Puffing, Chailen said, “I keep forgetting to ask the smith to look at—”

  A neigh drowned him out as a heavy weight threw itself on the doors from the other side. The kir went flying.

  Varn raised himself in time to see a large black form bolt past and disappear from the courtyard. The thunder of hoof beats faded away down the road.

  A bitter voice from beyond the other door said, “Llysanyins. Why, by all the gods, do they have to ride thrice-damned Llysanyins?”

  Not trusting his legs quite yet, Varn crawled to where the head groom lay on the ground. Chailen sat up, dusting himself off.

  “Are you hurt?” Varn asked.

  “Only my dignity,” said Chailen. “I ought to be broken back to stableboy. He was too docile last night—I should have guessed then he was planning something.”

  “That was Shan, wasn’t it?”

  “None other.” Then, with a wicked gleam in his eye that ill matched his innocent expression, Chailen said, “My—won’t Linden be surprised?”

  Both kir fell back on the cobblestones, laughing.

  The three Dragonlords and their escorts rode down the wide avenue leading to the palace. The air hung hot and heavy even this early in the morning. Linden sighed and tugged at the heavy silk of his tunic. This was promising to be a miserable day for wearing the ceremonial garb.

  Perhaps he could arrange to lose the second set somehow; then he could wear ordinary clothes every other day while this tunic and breeches were washed and airing. It was a lovely dream and the Lady would have his head if he did it. Neiranal mountain silk was hideously expensive.

  I’ve been thinking, Kief’s mindvoice said, about those standing stones you found yesterday. Both Tarlna and I are from the north of Cassori; I for one have never seen them. It would be interesting to visit them once this is over. What do you think, love? He glanced at his soultwin.

  I would like to see them myself, she said, properly escorted, of course.

  She cast Linden a withering glance. He shrugged. Her nostrils flaring in annoyance, she went on, I wonder who built it and why, and if there are any more.

  Linden said, Let’s ask. “Captain Jerrell,” he said aloud. “Yesterday when I rode by myself I came across a circle of standing stones overlooking the sea. Do you know anything about them?”

  Though Jerrell looked surprised—Linden sympathized with him; the question must have seemed to come out of nowhere—the guard said, “Very little, Your Grace. No one knows who built it or why; it’s not unlucky or anything like that. There are even some who say it’s a lucky place.”

  Linden nodded; that fell in with what he’d felt among the stones. “Go on—any more? I’ve, ah, an interest in such things.”

  The captain looked wary. It was plain he considered any sort of magery as something best avoided. “That’s as much as I know about it, Your Grace. It’s lucky—not like the other spot in the woods. Leastways, the spot that the stories say is in the woods. No one I’ve ever heard tell of has found it; may not even be real.

  “That place is said to be cursed; the old folk say it’s bad luck even to speak of it. Good thing you didn’t stumble upon that one, my lord, if it really does exist. 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.”

  Linden asked, “How do you know of it, Jerrell?”

  The soldier grinned. “My granther used to scare me with stories about it, my lord. All about the horrible bogles and such that are supposed to haunt it. When we were sprats my mates and I used to dare each other to go there at night; good thing it was too far away—or we’d’ve had to find it! Now and again more stories about it crop up.”

  The three Dragonlords looked at each other in speculation.

  Did you feel anything like that? Kief asked.

  Indeed, no. In fact, the part of the woods I found myself in felt most welcoming.

  He must have sounded smug, for both Kief and Tarlna raised eyebrows at him, murmuring “Oh?” and then catching each other’s eyes.

  Linden tried not to smile. I met Lady Sherrine of Colrane while riding. We had a picnic at her favorite spot in the woods.

  A picnic, Tarlna echoed blandly. Of course.

  Kief hid a smile behind his hand. Linden swore he heard a snicker.

  Then Tarlna said aloud, “You’ll make your other lady jealous, Linden.” She nodded toward the side of the avenue.

  Linden blinked in confusion. “My other—? Ah—are we here already?”

  He looked over to where a huge elm tree stood alone at the intersection of the main avenue and one of the side streets. Two girls waited beneath it; he’d seen them most mornings on his way to meet with the council. From their dress he guessed they were from a well-to-do merchant or artisan family. He missed them the mornings they weren’t there; they were the only faces he recognized in the masses that lined the street every day to see the Dragonlords pass. They stood out from the crowd somehow.

  As usual, the elder—a plump girl of fifteen or sixteen, he guessed—held up the younger so that she could see more easily. With their matching brown curls and snub noses, they were obviously sisters.

  The little girl caught sight of him and waved. He waved back, returning her grin. And as she had every morning, the child dissolved into giggles; her sister set her down and waved. Though he turned in his saddle, Linden lost sight of them in the crowd as the procession continued along the avenue.

  “I wonder who they are,” Linden said to no one in particular.

  Kief shrugged. “I doubt you’ll ever find out; they’re not likely to ever be at the palace, are they?”

  “No,” Linden agreed, thinking, And a good thing, too; I wouldn’t wish that cesspit of backstabbing on anyone, let alone two sweet-faced children.

  He’d just have to settle for waving at them each morning—and envying them the simplicity of their lives.

  Twelve

  Nethuryn looked up from his scrying bowl and groaned. Pol had found his trail once more; he would have to run.

  But where? It seemed no matter where he fled, Pol tracked him down, barely one step behind. And he was so tired; even so small a use of what was left of his magic left him weak. He looked around his current refuge in despair, running his fingers through his long white beard.

  The room was as shabby as the inn it was part of. Nethuryn was glad of Merro; the mice now gave this room a wide berth. It was the only bright spot he could see in a sea of troubles.

  Where could he go next? Kers Port? Canlyston? Where?

  Where could he hide himself and the last bit of real magic left to him?

  Merro pounced on something in the filthy rushes. It squeaked. Poor little mouse. Probably it was just in from the country and hadn’t heard—

  Gods, what a fool he’d been! Of course Pol found it easy to track him; Kas knew him too well, knew all his habits. Habits that an old man would find hard to change.

  “I’m a city mouse, Merro,” he told the cat excitedly. “I always have been.”

  Merro looked up from the paw that pinned his supper to the floor. He cocked his head at his master. “Mrrow?”

  “A city mouse and Kas knows it! So we’ll do just what he
won’t expect—we’ll become country mice!”

  Althume let himself into the study where Peridaen and Anstella sat at a game of chess. Seeing that they were intent on their game, he went to the window overlooking the grounds of Peridaen’s river estate. For a moment he stared out into the darkness. Then he pulled the window hangings shut.

  Peridaen looked up. “Afraid of spies?”

  Althume shrugged. “It’s possible. After all, we have one in the older Dragonlords’ household. Why shouldn’t Beren or someone else have one here?”

  Anstella moved a piece. “Checkmate,” she said. As Peridaen studied the board, she continued, “A pity that Linden Rathan decided to stay in town. We had such a nice estate picked out for him here.”

  Grumbling, Peridaen laid his king on its side. “Where we could have wormed in a spy, just as we did in Duriac’s household. But no, dear Lady Gallianna—and Beren’s supporter—had to offer him her city house.” He paused. “Stupid cow.”

  Anstella laughed. “Another game, Peridaen? No? But gentlemen—we do have a spy in Linden Rathan’s household.”

  “Who?” they asked together.

  She smiled. “Sherrine. Even as we speak, she’s with him. He invited her to dine with him this evening. And I shall be most surprised—and disappointed—if we see her before morning.”

  Sherrine sat up, her hair falling over her breasts. She leaned over Linden, who lay on his back on the bed. “Surely, Linden, you can answer this one! Again—you say you like to dance, yet you won’t. Or not very often. Why?”

  He chuckled and caught her nipple between thumb and forefinger. She gasped as he rolled it between his fingers. “Stop that,” she said, her voice husky. “You’re trying to distract me.” She slapped his hand—gently.

  He rested his hand on her hip. “Because I’m afraid you might be offended at the answer. And yes, I’m trying to distract you. It’s fun.” He grinned at her.

  “Beast,” she said. “Do you mean I’m a bad dancer?”

  “No, not at all. It’s just that, well, you’re too short for me, little vixen. Not that it matters in many things,” he slid his hand back up to her breast, “the important things, but it is uncomfortable for dancing. All the women here are too short.”

  “We are not. You are too tall.” She kissed him and straightened. The next words stuck in her throat.

  Yet she had to ask them. Her mother would be furious if she didn’t. Every time she returned from spending time with Linden, her mother badgered her for whatever information she’d gleaned. And every time her mother called her a fool for not learning more. It galled her beyond belief to meekly accept her mother’s mockery.

  As if she could do any better!

  But the Dragonlord had chosen the daughter, not the mother. During every tirade Sherrine smugly congratulated herself for that as she kept her silence.

  Still, she had to have some information to pass on. So she put on her most innocent look and asked, “Is it true that Dragonlords are immune to magic?”

  “Sherrine!” he said, laughing. But there was also a note of annoyance she’d never heard before. It quelled her. “You’re more curious than any cat, ferret, or even bard could ever be!” He rose from the bed, stretching. “I want more wine; do you?” A ball of coldfire blazed up in his hand. He tossed it into the air.

  She gasped and jumped. This was something she couldn’t get used to; each time it startled her anew. “Yes,” she said, though she didn’t. She watched him cross the room to the table. The coldfire cast rippling shadows over his body, glinting on the narrow clan braid that fell to below his buttocks. She watched the big muscles of his legs bunch and slide under his skin.

  She bit her lip; she’d annoyed him. Well and truly she’d annoyed him. She saw it in his walk, the set of the wide shoulders.

  A pang of unaccustomed remorse took her. It suddenly felt low, this pumping him for information. Maybe it would be best to let some other woman of the Fraternity betray him.

  Then he turned, offering her a goblet, and smiled at her. Her breath caught in her throat. And she knew she’d never give him up to another woman.

  Thirteen

  Almost four tendays we’ve been here and this heat hasn’t broken yet.

  Linden sprawled across his bed, unable to sleep any longer in the sticky heat. He longed for the chill of a mountain dawn at Dragonskeep.

  It didn’t help that everyone assured him over and over that this was most unusual weather, that Casna was usually kept cool by breezes off the sea. Since he couldn’t have it, he didn’t want to hear about it.

  He turned his head to look at the empty half of the bed. It was as much as he had the energy to do. Just as well Sherrine has been with her other lover for the past two nights. While he enjoyed her company and found the habit endearing, her trick of wrapping herself around him in her sleep was likely to stifle him in this weather. He’d lost count of how many times since they’d begun their dalliance he’d gently disengaged himself only to wake up a short time later and find her once again pressed against him. Too hot for that.

  Yawning, he debated whether to get up or stay abed until the servants came to wake him. The linen sheets sticking to his back as he rolled onto his side decided him. Perhaps it’ll be cooler in the garden.

  He got up, found a pair of breeches to wear and decided against tunic, stockings, and boots for the time being. Pouring tepid water from the pitcher into the washbasin, he splashed his face and chest in a vain effort to cool off. He studied his dripping reflection in the mirror, rubbing the reddish stubble on his chin; time enough later to shave, he decided. Linden walked light-footed through the dim house. The clatter of dishes from the kitchen could be heard but otherwise the house was silent. He let himself out of the doors to the gardens.

  It was little better outside. Even the dew seemed warm to his bare feet. But at least the air was fresher; that was something. He wandered among the topiary animals that populated this part of the gardens. As always he silently cheered on the fox running away from the goose.

  A darkness in the western sky caught his attention. Rain clouds? Pray the gods they are! We could use the relief:

  “Dragonlord?” a voice called softly.

  Linden looked over his shoulder. One of the servants stood in the doorway. When she saw that she had his attention, she continued, “Your bath is ready, Your Grace.”

  “Thank you, Vesia; I’ll be right in.” Once more he looked at the sky, hoping for a storm.

  Something’s wrong. The thought jolted Otter out of his sleep. Only half awake, he groped for his clothes, trying to decide what was amiss. It wasn’t until he stood up, automatically balanced against the roll of the Sea Mist, and nearly fell over that he realized the ship was still in the water.

  “Oh, gods; what’s going on?” he muttered as he pulled on his clothing as fast as he could. He stumbled out to the deck, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and went to the rail. The sea was glassy, with an oily look that he didn’t like. “Rynna?” he called, apprehensive.

  “Up here on the quarterdeck, Otter. Come have a look!”

  When he reached the quarterdeck he found Maurynna, Master Remon, and Kara the second mate apparently just ending a discussion.

  “So it’s decided, then? It doesn’t look to be a bad blow; it might well push us out to sea a bit more than we want, but better that than onto the shore. We run before it,” Maurynna said. “And I want as much canvas as is safe up; we may as well take advantage of this. Master Remon, the helm is yours.”

  Otter was appalled. “A ‘blow’? You mean there’s a storm coming and you’re keeping the sails up? You’re not going to anchor and ride it out? Heave-ho or whatever you call it?”

  Master Remon and Kara laughed outright. Maurynna grinned and said, “That’s ‘heave to,’ Otter, and no, we’re not going to throw out the sea anchors. Why? The crew’s fresh.

  “And believe it or not, we’re safer running before it. Besides, it’s coming out of the
west which means it will blow us east—and perhaps a bit south, but that’s no matter—and east is the direction we want to go. We’ll get to Casna that much sooner. Haven’t you ever been on board a ship in a storm before?”

  Otter licked dry lips. “No.”

  Maurynna jerked her head aft. “You’ll be getting off easy, then. This doesn’t look like a bad one.”

  He stared past her at the lowering sky. Black clouds were piling up with—to his eyes—ominous speed on the horizon. Not a bad one? It looked like the wrath of the gods to him. He swallowed hard. “I’m going to my cabin.”

  She caught his sleeve. “Otter, if you do, be warned: I can’t spare anyone to clean it while the storm’s on and likely not afterward, either.”

  “What?” Then, as her meaning became clear, “Oh. Gifnu’s bloody hells.”

  Maurynna nodded at the starboard rail. “That will be the best place for you, my friend, while this is going on. Kara, fetch one of the oilskin cloaks from the stores for Bard Otter and get a safety line on him.”

  Maurynna went off to prepare the rest of the crew. Otter waited glumly by the rail for the second mate to return. While he knew a bard should always be open to new experiences, this was one he suspected he could well do without.

  Since he was already awake, Linden decided to go to the palace early that morning. If Rann was up, he’d spend some time visiting with the boy before the meeting began.

  Rann was, indeed, awake, and playing in the garden with his wolfhound and a slender young woman with a round, pleasant face. This must be Gevianna; Linden could imagine this girl romping with Rann and his dog.

  “Dragonlord!” Rann cried with pleasure and trotted to him. Bramble the wolfhound pranced along behind.

  Linden scooped Rann up and tossed the laughing child in the air. Damn! but the boy was little more than skin and bone. “Have you eaten yet, lad?” he asked.