The Last Dragonlord Page 25

  With your first Change you became Dragonlord before Yerrin, Kief pointed out.

  All the more reason to behave in an honorable manner, Linden said. So I shall go to the tisrahn. He looked over at the older Dragonlord.

  Kief’s glare rivaled Maylin’s. Someday, little one, that stubborn streak of yours will get you into trouble.

  Linden grinned as they rode into the courtyard. It already has, my friend, and no doubt will again. But not this time, I think.

  “Your Highness—here are the accounts you wished to see,” Althume said as he presented himself, estate books cradled in his arms, to Prince Peridaen in the latter’s study.

  Peridaen looked up from the supper he and Anstella were just finishing. “Ah, good, Kas. We’re finished, Yulla; you may clear the table. We’ll need plenty of room for these books.”

  Peridaen leaned back in his chair, smiling benignly at the servants as they scurried to do his bidding. Althume waited humbly by the empty fireplace. Anstella looked amused.

  As soon as the last servant had left, Prince Peridaen dropped his pose of affable royalty. “Now what, Kas? I daresay you’ve already heard Sherrine’s made a pretty mess of this. Seemed the whole wretched council couldn’t wait to tell us about it this morning.”

  “I knew the little fool couldn’t do it right,” Anstella said scornfully. “A very pretty mess, indeed, this is.”

  Althume set the books down with a thump. “On the contrary, it’s to our advantage—for, you see, there’s been a slight change in plans. I’ve spent the past few hours looking over a manuscript that Pol brought back with him along with the soultrap jewel. It’s made up of certain notes of Nethuryn’s from long ago. With those notes, my translations of Ankarlyn’s tracts should prove much easier.

  “I also found, among the notes, a recipe for a drug that bears a notation that it is of Ankarlyn’s devising. I would dearly love to put it to the test on one of the Dragonlords. Were one of them under its influence, I would be able to question him or her to my heart’s content. And the crowning jest is that afterward they wouldn’t remember what happened to them.”

  Anstella laughed. “How deliciously ironic.”

  Peridaen grinned like a schoolboy with a pouch full of stolen apples. “I like that. Do you intend to try it?”

  “I would love to, but there is one slight problem with it,” Althume admitted with a wry twist of his lips. “Judging by the ingredients, it would be quite bitter and very odd tasting. I’m afraid it would be noticeable in a meal.”

  Peridaen stroked his beard. “So concealing it in food is out. Hm. That is a problem. Could one of the Dragonlords be overwhelmed and forced to take it?”

  “Possibly. I was thinking along the same lines,” Althume said.

  An amused laugh made both men turn to Anstella.

  “Men,” the baroness said an amused tone, as if she spoke of an entertaining—but rather backward—pack of puppies. “Always thinking force is the answer to everything. Think, my lords; think. There is indeed something such a drug could be hidden in.”

  Althume looked to the prince; Peridaen shrugged his ignorance.

  “What?” the mage asked, nettled that Anstella had found an answer so easily to the problem.

  Anstella smiled. “What is expected to be bitter? A farewell cup, of course.”

  Annoyed, Althume exploded, “For the sake of the gods, Anstella, are you thinking of Sherrine and Linden Rathan? Do you honestly think he’d accept any such thing from her after what she did to that girl?”

  “I wouldn’t,” Peridaen said. “And neither would Linden Rathan; the man’s not stupid.”

  Now Anstella fairly purred. “But he would—if there were witnesses. Think! He’s a Dragonlord. He can’t afford to look mean-spirited and petty, can he? Especially over some commoner. And petty he would look, did he refuse a cup offered in … sincere repentance.

  “No, my lords, take my word for it; if Sherrine offers him a farewell cup before a goodly number of the nobles of Cassori, Linden Rathan will drink it even if it chokes him.”

  By all the gods, she was right; so simple an answer … Althume smiled like a wolf.

  “Anstella, that’s brilliant,” Peridaen said. He caught her hand and kissed it. “Absolutely brilliant. But where would there be such a gathering of witnesses? Sherrine can hardly burst into the council.”

  “Not the council, Peridaen,” Althume said. “But there could be an occasion … .” He caught Anstella’s eye.

  The baroness nodded and smiled slightly. “Just so; I think we have the same idea, Kas. Leave it to me. Can you be ready on short notice? I may not be able to give you much warning.”

  “Yes. Once the drug is compounded, it simply needs to be dropped into a cup of wine. The beauty of this is that, in itself, it is not magical. There will be no risk of warning Linden Rathan that way. It merely sets the stage for the spell to follow.”

  “Good,” Peridaen said. “That just leaves Sherrine. I’ll order her—”

  “No,” Althume interrupted. “Don’t. Not yet. I want her to do this of her own free will, if possible. If her heart’s not in it, she might well warn him. I want her to come seeking help from you.”

  “But how to get her to want to do it?” Peridaen objected.

  Anstella’s smile turned from mysterious to pitiless. “Leave that to me as well.” She glanced at the time-candle. “In fact, if you will excuse me, my lord, I believe I shall pay my daughter a visit this evening. I’m certain she needs … comforting this night.”

  With that, Anstella rose gracefully; Peridaen stood as well. He escorted her to the door where they exchanged a brief kiss.

  When she was gone, Peridaen returned to his seat and poured out two goblets of wine. “Do you think it will work?” He pushed one goblet across the table.

  “Likely better than trying to overpower someone Linden Rathan’s size would,” the mage admitted as he joined the prince at the table. He drank.

  “So—what else is involved in this change in plans you mentioned?” Peridaen asked.

  “I still intend to use the soultrap jewel, but not quite as we planned. You’ve heard the legend that Ankarlyn enslaved a fledgling Dragonlord?”

  “Of course. But it’s just a legend, Kas.”

  “I don’t think so—not anymore. And I’ll know for certain if I can question Linden Rathan.”

  Peridaen frowned. “And if it is true about the fledgling? You intend—”

  “To enslave Sherrine, of course. As a member of the Fraternity, she should be prepared to lay down her life. It may not come to that.”

  “This isn’t something that can be done quickly, is it?” Peridaen asked, an odd note in his voice. “That is, you weren’t planning on doing it tonight.”

  “No. The soultrap jewel will need to be charged,” the mage replied. “That will take time.” He wondered at the look of guilty relief that flashed across the prince’s face.

  “Isn’t that dangerous—to begin your ceremonies again?” said Peridaen. “Could the Dragonlords sense them?”

  “A chance I’ll have to take. But I’m confident that I’ll be too far away for them to detect.”

  Peridaen shuddered. “You’ll be at that place again?”

  “I will. It’s warded and has long been dedicated to such workings. There’s a considerable amount of innate power already there, and that will aid in charging the jewel. And once it’s charged …”

  Althume shrugged and watched Peridaen narrowly as the prince struggled with the idea.

  “Ah, gods, I wish there was some other way. I don’t know how I’ll face Anstella after this.” Peridaen buried his face in his hands. “I don’t like this.”

  “We must all make what sacrifices we can for the Fraternity. And are you so certain that Anstella will be upset? There seems to be little love lost between mother and daughter,” Althume said.

  Peridaen’s head snapped up at that. “Don’t be a fool,” he exploded. “However it looks, and
however much Anstella derides the girl, she is still a mother. I’ve never been able to understand what is happening between them or why it’s like that. But I do know that if anyone else dares insult Sherrine—even if they’re simply echoing something she just said—Anstella will be at their throats like a mother bear defending her cub. Twisted as this bond may be, it is still that of mother and child, and that is a thing even a mage would do well to fear. If you value this scheme of yours, don’t tell her what you plan.”

  His royal patron’s anger startled Althume. Peridaen had never spoken to him in that way before. So, then. It would be well to tread softly here. He forced into his voice a sympathy he didn’t feel. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that. And it pains me to think that I will cause your lady such grief. But you must see that this is a gift from the gods themselves, Peridaen. We’ll never have a chance like this again.”

  “I know.” Peridaen stared at the table. He suddenly looked tired beyond measuring. “I know. But didn’t Ankarlyn kill that fledgling?”

  “Only indirectly. Ankarlyn made clumsy use of his fledgling once the man had Changed—a mistake we won’t repeat. The enslaved Dragonlord’s soultwin killed him, then committed suicide herself. If we play this game well, neither Linden Rathan nor any other Dragonlord should know what has happened.”

  “May the gods will it so,” Peridaen said heavily. “If we play the game.”

  Alone at the long table in the dining room of the Colranes’ city house, Sherrine picked at her food, pushing it around the plate. The mere thought of eating turned her stomach. She shoved the plate aside.

  “Take it away,” she snapped at the serving maid.

  An instant later the offending meal was whisked away. The maid fled the room. Sherrine heard murmuring. No doubt the servants were discussing this latest bit of temper, curse them.

  Now what? She stared at her hands as she twisted the rings on her fingers. The long, lonely evening—and lonelier night—stretched out before her.

  So lost in her thoughts was she, that at first she didn’t heed the sudden babble of voices at the front of the house. Then—

  “Oh, gods—no!”

  Sherrine stood up, gripping the edge of the table with both hands. Not her mother. Not on this day of all days.

  Her mother swept regally into the room. Sherrine pushed away from the table and forced herself to stand upright.

  One beautiful eyebrow rose in a disdainful arch. “I knew you’d fail. But not quite so spectacularly, I must admit. Thrown over for a sailor, of all things.”

  Sherrine stiffened. The door behind her mother was still open and, though her mother did not raise her voice, from past experience Sherrine well knew the carrying power of her mother’s jibes. Judging by the sudden silence throughout the rest of the house, every servant in the place was eavesdropping. And Sherrine had no illusions that they would keep silent for love of her; the tale would be spread throughout the noble houses of Casna by tomorrow night.

  “Thrown over for a sailor,” her mother repeated, “and then dismissed like a thieving steward—all for the sake of some low-born wench. And you took it meekly, didn’t you?”

  The words were bitter enough, but the worst was the amused disdain and contempt that dripped from her mother’s voice. And she could find no words of her own to fight back with. She despised herself for her weakness.

  “Outsmarted yourself, didn’t you, this time? Thought you were so clever and never saw that Linden Rathan was just amusing himself until something better came along.” Her mother shook her head, smiling scornfully. “And there’s not a thing you can do about it, is there?” she taunted.

  Sherrine turned her head away from the hateful truth. There was nothing she could do. She was powerless.

  “I knew all along this idiocy of yours would fail. The likes of you would need sorcery to catch a Dragonlord,” her mother said with a final sneer. “You’re a disappointment to me, girl; you always have been. Bah, I’ve no more time to waste on you.”

  On the last cutting words her mother gracefully gathered up her skirts and departed. Sherrine stood trembling, unable to move, feeling as if her soul had been torn apart.

  Then her spirit rebelled. She had not needed sorcery to catch Linden! Not the first time!

  But she would if she were to snare him again. And she thought she knew where to find such magic; she might be powerless, but she knew of one who was not.

  She would give Linden one last chance. And then …

  And then he’d see he could not treat her so and escape unscathed.

  Thirty-seven

  The morning light poured through the window. Cursing under his breath, Althume bent over the ancient manuscript. The script was crabbed and blotted, the language archaic where it wasn’t in an unknown tongue altogether. At last he threw down his quill pen in frustration.

  Time. He needed more time, damn it. From the little he’d translated, it could be done. But he needed the entire ceremony and spells, not just this piddling bit he had so far.

  Most frustrating of all was that he knew how to gain the time he needed, but for it he needed a certain accomplice. He wondered how long it would be before she sought either her mother or Peridaen’s aid for revenge. They, of course, would send her on to him. He did not relish the thought of her knowing him for a mage, but that could not be helped.

  He just hoped it would not be long—or that Peridaen would be forced to order her aid.

  He was still lost in thought when the house steward opened the study door. “My Lord Steward, Lady Sherrine of Colrane asks to see you.”

  Before he could reply, Sherrine entered the room, head held high, eyes glittering with fury. For a moment Althume, too surprised to stand or speak, merely stared at her. By all the gods, what had Anstella said to the girl last night? And why straight here? He knew that Anstella would not have divulged his secret. Not without his permission.

  It took a frown from the house steward to bring him back to his assumed role. He rose and came around the desk, hands extended. “My lady—you honor me. Herrel, send for tea,” he ordered as he guided Sherrine to a chair, “and then see that we are not disturbed.”

  As Herrel closed the door Althume finished for his benefit, “How may I be of service to you, my lady?”

  The latch dropped. Althume listened a moment to be certain that the house steward was not eavesdropping at the keyhole, then dropped his mask of obsequious servant. “So, you’ve failed.”

  Sherrine hissed in anger. “Only because Linden took the side of a lowborn slut. I even offered to pay her a wergild.”

  Althume waved a hand. “Spare me the details; I already know them.”

  A dark flush crept up the girl’s cheeks.

  “However, may I say that I sympathize with you? Who would have thought that a Dragonlord would have become so angry at such a little thing. It’s not as if the girl was noble.” But if, as the other Dragonlords seemed to think, having you in close proximity to Linden Rathan was too dangerous, this was a clever ruse on his part to have you keep your distance, my little fledgling. “Still, the fact remains you did not get very much useful information for all the time you spent with Linden Rathan.”

  “Should I have handed him a list and said ‘The Fraternity of Blood would like the answers to these questions, my lord’?” Sherrine retorted. “The man is not stupid. I asked him as much as I dared. If I had more time I could get even deeper into his confidence.” She tossed her head. “Get me that time, Althume.”

  The mage leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers before his face. Audacious chit—he had to grant her that. He had no doubt she had suggested the dalliance for her own pleasure; she had not the strength of purpose to discomfit herself for the Fraternity. And here she was demanding he help her reconcile with Linden Rathan as if he had nothing better to do.

  But what did she think a mere steward could do? Or did she know more than she’d let on so far?

  He said with a touch of iron
y, “Time is something we are all in need of, Lady Sherrine. And how could I, the humble steward of Prince Peridaen’s estates, get you more time with Linden Rathan?”

  “Let us end this farce—steward. You are no more a servant than I. You are a mage—and a powerful one, I would wager.”

  Althume allowed a tiny smile to cross his lips. “Very good, my dear. How did you guess?”

  The corners of Sherrine’s mouth quirked up but it was not a smile. “I am not stupid, my lord mage. Not at all. I know how to see, not merely look.”

  Amused now, Althume asked, “And what do you want of me?”

  She came directly to the point of her visit. Althume approved; he had no time to waste on maidenly vaporings and false modesty.

  “Prince Peridaen once jested about a love philter for Linden Rathan. I want one. Once he accepts me again, I can continue gathering information. Indeed, if the philter causes him to become entirely besotted with me, I could be more daring in what I asked him.”

  “Alas,” said the mage ruefully. “As much as I hate to admit it, it cannot be done. Oh, don’t think I didn’t research it; Peridaen stung my pride with his assumption that it wasn’t possible. Unfortunately he was right. You will have to find your own way back into Linden Rathan’s bed.”

  Her nostrils flared, but Sherrine betrayed no other sign of anger. “I—His servants turned me away not a candlemark ago,” she admitted.

  Good, Althume thought. As if to himself, he mused aloud, “How odd you should mention time before. Time, time, time; exactly what we—Prince Peridaen and I—need.”

  “Why?”

  The question was a mild surprise. “Hasn’t your mother told you of the most recent development in the council?”

  Sherrine’s laugh was crystalline and unamused. “We judged it best to have as little contact as possible while I dallied with Linden as she faced him across the council table. That way Beren’s supporters could not so easily claim undue influence. A plan, I must say, that suited me quite well.”

  Still, she should have kept you apprised of which way events were turning. Ah, Anstella—clever as you can be, in so many ways you are a fool. A pity Peridaen took up with you instead of your daughter.