The Last Dragonlord Page 14

  Maurynna made the sign to ward against evil. “Avert,” she said. “Let’s hope the Dragonlords can keep it from that.”

  The next few moments passed in troubled silence. Here, in the little bedroom with its age-darkened beams, the possibility of civil war should have seemed remote. But for the first time Maylin believed it could truly happen. Something hovered in the room like a shadow. Even the colorful tiles around the hearth seemed dimmed.

  Then Maurynna shattered the darkling mood. She began brushing her hair again and asked cheerfully, “But what does he look like?”

  Since there could only be one “he,” Maylin began, “He’s big—”

  Maurynna was now staring at nothing, smiling again. The brush hung suspended in midstroke.

  Maylin wanted to knock a head—her own or her cousin’s, she wasn’t sure which—against the wall. Belatedly she remembered that description fit the dockhand. Oh, gods; Maurynna wouldn’t—Not with a common dockhand, would she?

  How to ask without offending her? Maylin considered the problem and could see no way around it. A frontal attack it was, then.

  “You look like a lovesick calf,” Maylin said. “You’re thinking about that dockhand again, aren’t you? Oh, don’t try to deny it; you’re redder than a palace guard’s tunic. What happened between the two of you?”

  If possible, Maurynna’s face turned even redder. “What do you mean, ‘what happened’?”

  “Don’t deny it.” Maylin folded her arms. “Rynna, when you talked about him you got all starry-eyed. And you kept smiling to yourself afterward. You’re not planning to, to …”

  “Have a dalliance with him?” Maurynna scowled like a storm about to break.

  Maylin counted her breaths. One, two, three … She reached ten before the danger passed. The anger melted away, replaced by a look of bewilderment.

  “I don’t know. He’s—he’s … There’s just something about him,” Maurynna said. “That’s the best I can explain it—even to myself. I don’t even know his name; he didn’t tell me. He’s a Yerrin noble; I saw his clan braid.” She rose to her knees and blew out the rushlight. In the sudden darkness she confessed: “He kissed me when we were in the hold.”

  Maylin groaned. This was worse than she’d feared. “Rynna—have a care!” she pleaded. She waited until the sounds of Maurynna putting herself to bed ended. “If he’s a Yerrin noble and working the docks now, then he must be an outcast and in disgrace. Are you really willing to risk everything you’ve worked for for him? Please; don’t throw your life away. Tell me you won’t.”

  The silence stretched on and on. Maylin fell asleep waiting for a reassurance that never came.

  Seventeen

  Harn crept along the hall. He had no fear of a squeaky floorboard betraying him. The thick, patterned carpets muffled every footstep. He paused outside the Dragonlords’ bed chamber.

  Damn their arrogance. Because they’d not let him accompany them, he’d had to spend the evening chafing in the house under the watchful eye of the house steward. He’d had no chance to follow. He wondered what they’d spoken of; the younger Dragonlord had left without coming back. The other two had looked disturbed and retired right away. This might be his only chance to find out what had happened.

  The other servants were all below. He hoped none of them came upstairs. He had no duties to take him up here, no plausible excuse ready. Still, he had to take the risk. His lord was interested in anything the Dragonlords did or said.

  He pressed his ear against the thick oak door. At first all he heard was muffled, indecipherable mumbling. Then the mumbling resolved itself into two voices that became clearer; it seemed the Dragonlords had moved closer to the door. Harn caught the name “Sherrine.” He strained to hear.

  The man spoke now. “Do you think Linden will be able to stay away from her now that he knows?”

  A heavy sigh, and the woman said, “I don’t know. I hope so. Best not to take him to task over it, though. You know how stubborn he can be. Maybe the other girl will distract him.”

  Harn rocked back on his heels, surprised. Why would the young Dragonlord suddenly want to stay away from Lady Sherrine? My lord and the prince will not be at all pleased. And who is the “other girl”?

  He resumed listening in time to hear Kief Shaeldar’s voice again and the sound of someone pacing. “To tell you the truth, I trust Linden; I think he’ll be strong enough not to risk them both. And this matter is between them. I’ve interfered as much as I feel is right. Gods; I wish the Lady were here. This is a dangerous situation for a fledgling Dragonlord … .”

  Startled, Harn gasped. From inside the room he heard the pacing stop. At once he jumped up, running lightly down the hall in the opposite direction. His stocking feet made only the faintest sound on the thick carpet.

  As he turned the corner, he heard the door to the Dragonlords’ chambers open. Kief Shaeldar called out, “Is someone there?”

  Harn swore. He ducked into one of the unused bedrooms. His heart pounded as he leaned against the door, listening. There were no pursuing footsteps. He went slack with relief.

  Damn! The tales of the Dragonlords’ acute hearing were true, it seemed. Once more thing to tell his lord, Kas Althume.

  He grinned. Althume would be well pleased with this night’s work of his. To think Lady Sherrine was a new Dragonlord! What irony. The mother deep in the machinations of the Fraternity, and the daughter—

  The daughter was one of the enemy.

  As soon as all in the house slept, he’d take a horse and set off. News like this couldn’t wait.

  “What was it?” Tarlna asked as Kief shrugged and shut the chamber door once more.

  “I thought I heard something. Must have been my imagination; still all agog over Linden’s news, I guess. Imagine—the first new Dragonlord in six hundred years!”

  “But is she?” Tarlna mused as she twined a curling strand of hair between her fingers.

  Kief frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Think. Even before Linden’s birth, there were fewer and fewer Dragonlords sensed with each passing century. No one thought it too odd at first; such ebb and flow has happened before. But was it in truth the beginning of this famine of Dragonlords?

  “We know none of the elders sensed this girl; not even any of the truedragons did. How many others like her have there been? And how can we be certain she’s the only one since Linden?” She watched her soultwin, saw him catch her meaning.

  His eyes went wide. “Good gods. There could have been a thousand—ten thousand!—of them … .”

  “And since most of our kind die before we’re old enough to Change, we wouldn’t know about any of them,” Tarlna said. “So the question remains: is this girl truly the only one?”

  Eighteen

  Linden spent a miserable night tossing and turning, his mind running in circles. In the grey hours before dawn, he finally gave up the battle. He dragged the quilt from the foot of the bed, wrapped it around himself, and went to sit on the windowseat.

  His eyes were gritty with lack of sleep. He rubbed at them. The glass was cold on his forehead as he rested his head against the windowpane. He stared outside, listless, drained.

  Kief was right. His soultwin was in danger from him. For her safety, he had to forgo what he wanted and the desire he’d seen in her eyes. Yet already the urge to join with her tormented him. Rathan was quiescent now, but how long would that last? He knew he’d not be able to stay away from her, not completely. But would seeing her, talking to her, make it easier or harder? Everything in him cried out for her.

  Gods, but this was not going to be easy. He shifted. The quilt fell away from his shoulder; he ignored the chill against his skin. The sky outside was lighter now with the first peach and apricot shades of approaching dawn. He yawned, wondering if he could get an hour or two of sleep before the servants came to fill his bath.

  He looked over at the bed. No—it wasn’t worth the effort to get up. He settled back.<
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  All at once Rathan lashed at him, driving him mad with desire. The raging passions of a mating dragon scorched him as Rathan urged him to seek his soultwin, join with her. Linden cried out in torment. Breath by slow breath he pushed the draconic half of himself back. Rathan subsided, his sullen rage burning like a hot coal.

  Linden’s temper was no better. He couldn’t shake off Rathan’s black fury. He threw the quilt back onto the bed and snatched up a pair of breeches. He hauled them on, then threw open the door.

  “Aran! Gifnu’s bloody hells—where’s my bath?” he bellowed. He heard squeaks and yells of surprise from the servants’ quarters. Moments later two frightened young serving men tumbled half-dressed into the dim hall. They stared at him, bleary-eyed with sleepy surprise.

  “Well?” he demanded. A small part of his mind scolded him for taking his temper out on the servants. He throttled it. “I want my bath and breakfast—now!”

  Aran, the house steward, stumbled into the hall, his hair sticking up every which way. “Now, Dragonlord? But—”

  “Now, blast it!” He slammed back into his room. The servants twittered outside, astonished at the change in their easygoing Dragonlord. Then came the sound of running feet as they hastened to obey.

  He couldn’t wait any longer. He mindcalled Kief. The elder Dragonlord was inclined to surliness at first.

  Kief, Linden said, trying to still the turmoil in his mind. I’m sorry to wake you.

  Kief’s black mood vanished. He said sympathetically, Rathan’s after you, isn’t he? Would you like us to delay the meeting until this afternoon so that you can start looking for your soultwin? I wish for your sake we could dispense with it altogether today, but …

  Linden went limp with relief. Kief was giving him what he needed before he’d even asked. I understand. Just give me the morning. I have to at least start looking; I feel as if I’ll lose my mind if I don’t.

  I can give you until midday, Kief said. Then, faintly, as Kief withdrew from the contact: Luck to you, little one.

  Linden whispered, “thank you” to the air. He reached out with his mind again. Otter? Otter, I need your help.

  Otter’s reply was so clear that Linden suspected the bard was already awake. Now, boyo? It’s barely after dawn.

  Now, Linden said.

  I’m on my way.

  Although the draconic rage had subsided, Linden was still in a foul mood. For no matter how carefully he carried his harp while in dragon-form, he always managed to break a few strings on it. To distract himself until Otter arrived, Linden had decided to restring the instrument.

  It was a mistake. The cursed strings would not go right. The new ones kept slipping, fraying his already shredded temper even more. He forced his touch to remain delicate.

  The door creaked a little as it opened slightly. He snarled, “What?” but there was no answer. Instead, it opened wider. He didn’t bother looking up. Just let Aran get within range and he’d blast the man for his temerity, entering without leave.

  “My, my—aren’t we in quite the temper this morning?” a dry voice said.

  “Huh? Otter!” Linden jumped up, almost dropping his harp. “Oh—yes, I suppose. Oh, gods, but I’m glad to see you!”

  Otter regarded him with a speculative eye as he shut the door. “You had me fooled about that. And they’re tiptoeing around out there, boyo. What in blazes did you do? And why?”

  The bard settled himself in one of the chairs, neatly flipping his long, iron-grey clan braid out of the way. “Give me that before you break the pegs, you big ox. Between your mood and your strength you’re going to destroy a fine instrument.”

  Grateful, Linden dumped harp and strings into Otter’s lap. For a moment he watched Otter’s practiced fingers make quick work of the stringing before sitting back down in the windowseat. “I’m not in a foul mood.”

  “Re-e-e-ally?” Otter drawled. “I never would have guessed—what with waking me up at first light and your loving greeting just now.”

  Linden laughed; he couldn’t help it. “Very well, then. I guess I am being rather a wretch this morning, aren’t I?”

  Otter snorted. “No ‘rather’ about it, Linden—I’d say ‘definitely’ myself. So—what is this all about?” He played a few notes on the harp. “Beautiful instrument.”

  “Thank you,” Linden said. He hesitated, unsure how to begin.

  As if to give Linden time to collect himself, Otter looked around the richly furnished sleeping chamber. “Very nice,” the bard said, “if a bit overdone for my tastes. And how do you like it yourself?”

  Linden shrugged. “Too ornate, but it gives me privacy. I didn’t fancy the river estate I was offered. Too big; I would have felt lost in there by myself. When I said I’d prefer a private house to the castle quarters I was offered next, the owner volunteered this one for my use. Do you intend to continue staying with that merchant family? I thought you would stay here.”

  Otter grinned. “Maurynna will throw me off the Sea Mist if I do. Gods help me, boyo—forty years I’ve known you and this is one of the few times I’ve seen you blush!”

  Linden mumbled something and stood up. For some reason the encounter with Harn last night had made him uneasy. He’d learned to pay attention to such feelings when he was with Bram and Rani. That was how mercenaries stayed alive. Feeling a little foolish, he went to the door and looked up and down the hall. There was no one in sight. He shut the door and went back to sit down across from Otter.

  “Trouble?” Otter said, sitting up straighter.

  “I don’t think so—just an odd feeling.” He hesitated a moment, then plunged in. “I need your help. The ship’s captain—Maurynna, you said?—would she know who was unloading her ship? After I talked to you yesterday I wandered down to look at it. Now I need to find the leader of the crew of dockhands that was working there.”

  “Dockhands?” Otter looked perplexed. “But why? Did he steal something from you?”

  “She,” Linden corrected. The wild elation filled him again. He said softly, “It’s over, Otter—my waiting.” He watched realization dawn in Otter’s eyes, joy spread across the bard’s face.

  “Oh, gods. Linden, you’re not jesting, are you? No, of course not; not about this. Thank all the gods she’s come at last.” Otter’s eyes looked suspiciously bright. “What’s her name?”

  Linden groaned. “I never found out. If I had asked hers, I would have had to tell her mine. Do you think your friend the captain will be at the ship now? I—I’d like to begin looking.”

  “I should think you would! Shall we go now, or do you have a council meeting this morning?” Otter said.

  “No. The meeting’s been put off until midday.”

  Otter set the harp aside and stood up. “Let’s be off, then. Your lady may even be back there this morning to finish the job if it wasn’t completed last night. If not, we’ll start looking for her. And if we can’t find her, we’ll ask Maurynna. She’d be delighted to help you any way possible.”

  Linden bounded to his feet. “Done,” he said.

  “Rynna! Don’t walk so fast, please. My legs aren’t as long as yours,” Maylin said crossly. “We’ll be there in plenty of time.”

  She was annoyed. Maurynna had a ground-eating stride. But she and Kella took after their mother: little and plump, “like partridges,” as Father said. There was no way she could comfortably keep up with the pace Maurynna was setting.

  Especially in this weather. The heat was oppressive, the air so humid it was hard to breathe. Merely walking quickly made her sweat. With luck there would be a storm before long to clear the air.

  Maylin had no intention of arriving at the Processional red in the face and puffing like a grampus. Kella, riding on Maurynna’s shoulders, had no such worries.

  Maurynna slowed down. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  She sounded so apologetic that Maylin was mollified. “No harm done. And I do understand, but I would feel silly fainting from the heat at his
feet as he goes by. With my luck Lady Sherrine would be with him again; she has been on occasion.”

  Maurynna asked, “Who’s Lady Sherrine?”

  “Just the most beautiful of the young women at court.” Maylin looked around before continuing in a lower voice, “And a flaming bitch. She buys most of Mother’s woods lily perfume—which is a good thing, because that scent is so strongly associated with her, no one else at court buys it. They don’t want to be thought competing with her, I guess. Luckily a few wealthy merchants buy the rest. But gods is she a proper pain to wait upon.”

  Kella giggled.

  Maylin continued, “Gossip is that she’s the one he’s chosen for a dalliance, which shows remarkably little taste on his part, I think. Still, I daresay she’s taken care that he’s never seen that side of her. And Kella, don’t you dare tell Mother I said that about Lady Sherrine.”

  Kella nodded. “I won’t. But if she’s so mean, then why does he have a dally … dally—” Her face contorted. “What is a dally-thing?”

  Maurynna smiled. “Dalliance, gigglepuss. It means they’re—”

  Amused, Maylin waited to see how Maurynna would get out of this one.

  “Keeping company together,” Maurynna finished. “And as to why, because he must be lonely. He’s the only Dragonlord without a soultwin.”

  “But why is Linden Rathan lonely? Doesn’t he have any friends? What’s a soultwin? And why are there Dragonlords?”

  Maurynna reached up and tugged a lock of Kella’s hair. “What, gigglepuss? Don’t you know how Dragonlords came about? No? Where’s that wretched bard when you need him? He ought to explain this.”

  Maylin shrugged. The pace had quickened once more; Maurynna in her eagerness was walking faster. Maylin hadn’t the heart to complain again. So she kept her reply short and concentrated on not getting too out of breath. “Went out very early. You tell her—else no peace.”

  Maurynna said, “Listen well, then, small stuff. Long, long ago, people lived in small tribes and clans, and there was peace between them.