The Last Dragonlord Read online

  Caution on Desia’s part? Or trickery on someone else’s?

  Sherrine approached the study. A servant bearing a tray laden with a flask of wine and four goblets followed. Voices murmured beyond the door. Without a pause, she opened it and entered.

  Her head held high, she crossed the patterned tiles to the table that dominated the center of the narrow room. Surprised—and angry—faces turned to her. She had guessed rightly who would be here: her mother the baroness, Prince Peridaen, and Lord Steward Kas Althume. Before any of them could speak, she swept the prince her deepest, most graceful courtesy. Another for her mother, a lesser one for Althume.

  At her gesture the servant entered. He set the tray upon the cherrywood table. Sherrine dismissed him and poured the wine herself. “I am sorry, my lords, my lady, that you were not served before this. The servants were derelict in informing me that I had such honored guests.

  “And I apologize for coming late to this meeting; I would not have you think me lacking in dedication to the Fraternity.” She took a seat at the end of the table opposite Prince Peridaen, fluttering her lashes at him, enjoying her mother’s obvious annoyance. Peridaen nodded benignly at her.

  Now admit—if you dare—that you had meant to keep me out of this.

  Anstella snapped, “And what makes you so certain this is Fraternity business, girl?”

  Sherrine said nothing, letting her look speak for her: Don’t be stupid, Mother.

  Prince Peridaen raised one elegant eyebrow. His hand covered his mouth. Sherrine was certain he hid a smile.

  She looked down, feigning modesty. “May I ask what you were discussing? I wish to learn more of the ways and wisdom of those greater than I in the Fraternity.” She gazed at the prince, letting her face fill with awe, before looking down again. She watched the others through the curtain of her lashes.

  Vain as always, Peridaen took her bait. “We discussed the feasibility of trapping one of the Dragonlords by magic.” His glance strayed to Althume.

  From the corner of her eye, Sherrine caught the flash of Kas Althume’s hand cutting Peridaen off. The prince fell silent.

  The sight nearly startled a gasp from her. To see the Prince of Cassori, who demanded every courtesy and mark of respect due his rank, meekly accept an order from his steward was unfathomable.

  Therefore, things were not what they seemed. She wasn’t stupid, whatever her mother said to the contrary. Anstella of Colrane simply refused to acknowledge that her daughter—and chief rival as court beauty—might in any way equal her. Sherrine was content to let her mother keep her illusions—for now. She considered what she knew of the man sitting to the prince’s left.

  Ever since the prince had returned from his travels, the mysterious Althume had accompanied him everywhere. The tale at court was that he was a Pelnaran noble, a friend of Peridaen’s, down on his luck and given a stewardship.

  If so, I’m a scullery maid. Aloud she asked, “Magic? To what end?”

  Anstella made an impatient gesture. “What do you think? The Fraternity wishes to know more about them. We need to discover their weaknesses—they must have some.”

  Sherrine stifled a sigh. The Fraternity always wanted to know more about Dragonlords. The time never seemed ripe, however, for the Fraternity to act on their knowledge. She doubted they ever would; like bards and Healers, Dragonlords were the chosen of the gods. To harm any of them was to be cursed for eternity, even if one escaped punishment from one’s fellow men—which very few did.

  It was all so dull. But thoughts of the Fraternity could be dismissed. She wanted to know what these three were plotting. If she could turn that plotting to her own ends …

  Peridaen said, “Linden Rathan is the only Dragonlord without a soultwin. I had joked earlier about a love philter—”

  This was a gift from the gods. “There is no need of a love philter,” Sherrine said. “If, as you say, the tall Dragonlord has no soultwin, surely he is lonely.

  “Am I not my mother’s daughter, my lords? Her very image I am told. And you would not deny her loveliness, would you? Bards have sung of it.” She favored her mother with a smile that had no mirth, knowing how it galled AnsteMa—who was without blemish—that her daughter should be held her equal in beauty.

  Abandoning all pretense of modesty, Sherrine continued, “Think you this lonely Dragonlord will refuse a dalliance with the most beautiful young woman at court? I will ensnare him, learn all that I may from him, find out how we may strike at them.”

  She folded her hands and waited. She had no doubt of her ability to do as she’d said.

  “Of all the stupid … ,” Anstella began.

  Expected though they were, the words cut her. She wished that for once her mother would bestow her ungrudging approval. But as much as she desired it, this time it was not her mother’s approval that was of vital importance.

  It was the prince’s approval that she needed—and still more, she suspected, Althume’s. While her mother and Prince Peridaen argued, Sherrine studied the supposed steward’s profile as he traced a pattern with one long finger on the table.

  He was thin to the point of gauntness; his heavy-lidded eyes looked bored, even sleepy. Light brown hair winged back from his temples, falling straight to his shoulders. His nose was straight with flaring nostrils.

  His clothes, as always, were somber—dark gray and green—and conservative in cut. Not for him the more fantastical parti-colored tunics of the court dandies. He dressed, Sherrine decided, to remain unobtrusive; there was nothing about him to catch one’s eye, to imprint him in one’s memory.

  He had made only one mistake in his chosen role: the quality of the cloth from which his garments were cut. It was far too expensive for a man supposedly living on the prince’s charity; Sherrine knew Peridaen was not that generous.

  She found it an interesting error. Unconscious vanity? An unwillingness to sacrifice those luxuries he considered his due? She would find out in time; for now she knew the man was more than he seemed.

  As if to confirm her speculations, Althume shifted in his chair. Immediately her mother and the prince ceased their debate and turned to him.

  He murmured, “We’ve nothing to lose if she doesn’t succeed.” He rested his chin on his steepled fingers, looking thoughtful.

  The baroness opened her mouth as if to argue. Althume glanced at her, however, and she shut it with a snap.

  That impressed Sherrine more than anything she had yet seen of the man.

  Peridaen said mildly, “Hmm. True, Kas, but … We appreciate your unselfish sacrifice, my lady, but if upon thinking further about it you find it repellent and wish to withdraw—”

  The memory of Linden Rathan’s face came back to her. She almost laughed aloud. Sacrifice? Now she could have what she desired while advancing her status in the Fraternity. She congratulated herself on her cleverness.

  “For the sake of the Fraternity, my prince, anything may be endured,” she murmured.

  The prince looked again to the other man. Althume shrugged and nodded. The fire in her mother’s eye boded ill for someone, but Sherrine knew the older woman dared not forbid her now. She’d won.

  Woe to the first servant to cross my lady mother, she thought with mock sympathy.

  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.
r />   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.

  Six

  “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 t
o 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.