The Last Dragonlord Page 6

  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.

  Prince Peridaen had the slender elegance of a greyhound. A short beard neatly outlined his jaw. His dark hair, curled in the latest fashion, hung to his shoulders. By his expression, Peridaen looked to be a reasonable man.

  The late consort’s twin, on the other hand, sat tight-lipped and scowling. Beren had the Cassorin face one saw everywhere in the country: round, broad of cheek, snub-nosed. It was now nearly the same shade of brick red as his hair. He looked ready to explode. Yet the nervous way he licked his lips said that there was more than simple fury at work.

  Linden frowned as his glance met Beren’s and the man glared before looking quickly away. Gods knew, Cassori didn’t need a hothead on its throne. And how much patience would he have with a child? Was his claim to the regency only a ploy to get power over Rann? If the warrant of regency was upheld and Rann died, the Cassorin throne would fall to this man.

  I wonder if it’s at his instigation that Rann is here. The boy looks sickly. How convenient if he should die of natural causes—aided by exhaustion.

  Duchess Alinya, the great-aunt of the older prince, faced the Dragonlords from the other end of the long table. Until the regency was settled, she was the ruler of Cassori.

  She was shrunken with age. But her pale blue eyes were fierce and proud and there was no weakness in her bearing.

  Alinya greeted them. “Dragonlords., I thank you once again for coming to our aid. We have all agreed to accept your judgment—” She stared hard at the two claimants to either side of her. Beren scowled again. Peridaen nodded, smiling benignly.

  The duchess continued, “Of who shall be regent until Rann is old enough to rule.” She rested a wrinkled hand on the boy’s head, then stroked his hair gently. Rann leaned into it like a puppy.

  “Since we are ready and all are agreed to accept our judgment, shall we begin?” Kief said.

  Linden leaned back in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck. The way things were plodding along, he looked to be in Cassori for the rest of his long life. Right now someone was praising her late Majesty’s dedication to the country. He stifled a yawn.

  The man droned on, ‘And there is no doubt our beloved queen would have chosen her consort’s—”

  Lord Duriac stood up. “Had Her Majesty not been so negligent, we wouldn’t be wasting our time here! A proper selection of a regent, with witnesses—that’s what she should have done. Then we wouldn’t have to deal with this nonsense of a so-called warrant of regency only now coming to light.”

  Beren—three chairs down from Duriac—slammed his big fists on the table. “Are you calling me a liar, Duriac?” he shouted.

  Linden tensed, ready to break up a fight.

  But instead a tiny whimper, barely more than a breath, claimed his attention. Rann was huddled in his chair, biting his lip. His eyes shone with tears.

  Duriac smiled primly and said, “Those of Silvermarch have always shown an overweening ambition for the throne of Cassori. Did you think to do what your brother had not succeeded in, my lord—to make yourself king in Cassori?”

  Beren leaped up, yelling. Duriac shouted something back at him. A countess jumped to stand between the two men. Everyone began talking at once. Kief called for order, but his light voice was drowned out. Rann dropped his head to his knees, crying.


  Linden stood up. His deep-voiced growl cut through the noise. “Gentlemen, this is most unseemly. And if you will excuse me, I wish a conference with Prince Rann.”

  Before anyone could react, he strode to Rann’s chair. Rann stared up at him, tears flowing down his cheeks. Linden resisted the urge to scoop the boy up and comfort him. Though a child, Rann was a prince and entitled to the courtesies due royalty.

  “Your Highness, would you care to step aside with me? I wish to speak with you privately,” he said.

  Rann nodded and stood up in his chair. Linden picked him up, meaning to set him down to walk, but the thin arms slid around his neck. Very well, then; if the boy wanted to be carried, Linden was more than willing. He settled Rann on one hip and carried him to the end of the room where the door to the anteroom still stood ajar. For a moment he considered taking Rann there. Instead he stopped by a window well away from the council.

  Kief said, Linden, just what do you—

  Tarlna sent a wordless blast of anger.

  Linden ignored the older Dragonlords’ barely suppressed fury. Doing what should have been done in the first place. The child doesn’t need to hear harsh words about his parents. Kief, please—do not interfere. He felt Kief’s struggle with his own temper, then his resigned agreement, and Tarlna’s vexation at his high-handedness.

  He sat on the edge of the deep sill, his back deliberately turned to the council, one leg braced to hold himself in place. Let them think him rude; he wasn’t sure he could control his expression and he would not betray his feelings to them. He unlatched the window and pushed it open.

  The window overlooked the gardens. Linden gazed outside, waiting while Rann finished crying, the child’s face buried in his shoulder. Linden stroked the boy’s hair, absently rocking him.

  The heavy, sweet smell of roses drifted in. He saw that the beds of roses and their borders of lavender were arranged to form a maze of red, pink, white, and purple. Bees that only a Dragonlord’s sharp eyes could see from this distance droned among the blossoms. Linden wondered idly where their skeps were kept; the kitchen herb garden, no doubt.

  A breeze sprang up, bringing in the sharper scent of the lavender. With it, and the weight of the sobbing child in his arms, came a memory Linden had thought he’d forgotten.

  … Closing the door of the small holder’s cottage behind him, exclaiming, “Gods, it’s cold out there!” And then Ash, running to greet him, stumbled, knocking his head against the trestle table.

  He scooped the crying child up and kissed the bump already forming. “There, there, boyo, don’t cry. It’ll stop hurting soon.” He tossed Ash into the air until the little boy laughed.

  “Stop that, Linden,” Bryony scolded, but smiling all the while. “You mustn’t get him excited now or he’ll never get to sleep!”

  He laughed, hugging the boy, reveling in the tightening of the slender arms around his neck. “Did you get the blankets out? I saw a ring around the moon as I came back from watering the horses. We’ll have a heavy frost by morning if nothing worse.”

  “Yes,” Bryony answered. “Fresh from the chest and still sweet with the lavender I packed them in. Here—smell.”

  He breathed deeply as he tucked the blankets around the boy lying in the small bed. The scent clinging to the wool was sweet, clean.

  “Goodnight, boyo,” he said, and kissed Ash’s forehead, turning his cheek for the child’s kiss before stepping aside.

  He watched Bryony kneel by the side of the bed. As much as he’d grown to love his stepson, he wanted little ones of his own. He imagined making more little beds, just like the one he’d made for Ash.

  But so far he and Bryony had had no luck. Maybe tonight …

  Instead the marriage had ended after festering like a tainted wound. Linden closed his mind to the remembered pain of Bryony’s mocking words, chosen to hurt as much as possible.

  Mule. Linden-half a-man. If only he’d known then …

  Rann lifted his head and Linden came back to the present. He waited while Rann hiccuped once or twice, collecting himself.

  “Do you really want to be here, lad?” Linden asked.

  Rann hesitated. Linden watched him struggle with his answer. Finally he said, “No, Dragonlord. Some of them are saying bad things about my—my mama and papa.” Rann swallowed a sob. “Uncle Peridaen doesn’t think I should be here either.”

  “So why are you here?”

  Rann shifted. “Because Uncle Beren said I should be, that it’s my future to be decided.”

  Linden started at hearing Kief’s reasoning echoed. He struggled to put aside his earlier suspicions. Commendable perhaps, he thought, but hard on the child.

  Then Rann leaned in to whisper, “I’d really rather be outside with my wolfhound Bramble—and Gevianna, my nurse.”

  Linden grinned, wondering what Gevianna would think of coming after a wolfhound in Rann’s listing. He asked, “What about your playmates?”

  Rann shook his head. “There are only servants’ children in the palace now. And Uncle Peridaen says it’s beneath me to play with them.”

  Linden’s eyebrow went up. Oh, really? he thought. The hell it is; if it’s not beneath a Dragonlord, it’s not beneath a prince. “I know two little boys I think you’d like to play with—”

  Rann’s tired face lit up.

  Linden cursed himself for an idiot, getting the boy excited like that. He finished, “But they’re too far away.”

  The boy nodded and drooped in Linden’s arms, the happy light gone from his eyes.

  This princeling needed some playmates. Linden vowed that somehow or another he’d find them for Rann. But for now, he wanted the boy well away from this squabbling.

  He mindspoke the others. I want Rann out. This is no place for a child.

  Tarlna said, His uncle has asked that he be here—

  And the other one doesn’t want him here! Kief, you are the eldest, our leader. For pity’s sake, spare the boy this, will you? Linden pleaded.

  Heavy regret tinted Kief’s mindvoice even as he said, If the majority of the council wants him here, Linden, he must—

  Linden roared, The council be damned! I will not have it! If you won’t back me up in this, I shall return to Dragonskeep. I will not be a party to this child’s suffering. Even when I was a mercenary I never harmed a child. I certainly won’t start now.

  You take a great deal upon yourself, Tarlna said. Her mindvoice was cold. The Lady will not be pleased.

  The Lady may discipline me as she sees fit. Now—will you stand with me in this?

  He felt the other two withdraw. He bit his lip, waiting, forcing himself not to argue further.

  At last Kief said, Knowing what a stubborn wretch you are, I don’t suppose we’ve much choice, have we? Very well, Linden. Tarlna and I will stand with you. I must admit the child doesn’t look well. Perhaps it’s for the best he’s out of this.

  Linden strode back to the table as Kief announced, “We feel that Prince Rann is better left out of these discussions, my lords and ladies. He has been ill. This will take too great a toll on him.”

  He knew he’d made the right decision when Rann sagged against him with a soft cry of relief. But for a moment Linden thought Beren would challenge him to a duel. The duke’s face was purple with rage.

  Peridaen looked surprised but pleased. His voice grave and gentle, he said, “Thank you, Dragonlords. I have already said my nephew is not strong enough for this. He needs his rest. Shall I—” He stood up.

  So did Beren. “Sit down, Peridaen. If anyone goes with Rann—”

  But Linden was already striding to the door. He opened it and leaned into the hall. The two soldiers guarding the room swung around to face him, hands on sword hilts, eyeing their prince sitting in his arms. Linden closed the door behind himself as he stepped into the hall.

  “Hello Captain Tev, Cammine,” Rann said, his head once again resting on Linden’s shoulder. He yawned.

  The soldiers salut
ed, murmuring, “My lords,” and relaxed.

  “Would one of you send for His Highness’s nurse—” Linden looked down at Rann.

  “Gevianna,” Rann supplied, sounding a trifle petulant that Linden hadn’t remembered.

  “Thank you, Your Highness,” Linden said gravely.

  The younger soldier set off down the hall at a nod from her superior. Linden waited in the hall with Rann, grateful for the respite. The captain took up his post again, too professional to be distracted by anything less than an invasion of the palace.

  “I hate these things,” Linden muttered under his breath. He hoped Gevianna would take her time coming for Rann.

  Rann lifted his head. “My mama and papa did, too. When I am king, I shan’t go to councils. I shall be a soldier. Were you really a soldier, Dragonlord, with Bram and Rani—just like in the stories? There was a Yerrin bard who sang for my mama; he told me some of them.”

  Linden chuckled. “That sounds like my friend Otter. He’s on his way to Cassori now, and if you want I’ll ask him to tell you more tales.” He returned Rann’s grin of delight. “And yes, I was in Bram and Rani’s mercenary company. It was the dead of winter when I ran away to join them. I was hardly sixteen at the time and hadn’t enough brains to bait a fishhook with, as the saying goes, else I’d have stayed at my father’s keep—at least until the spring.”

  Rann laughed aloud. Even Captain Tev allowed himself a small grin.

  The boy leaned in and whispered confidentially, “There were some scary parts—all that about Harper Satha. It gave me nightmares. Otter didn’t say much about him, but … Satha wasn’t really dead—was he?”

  Linden felt the blood drain from his face at the mention of the undead Harper-Healer’s name. He cursed himself in his mind: Damn it! You’re not sixteen anymore to be frightened by him. Stop being a fool!

  Yet even as he railed against the old terror, cold sweat trickled between his shoulder blades as for the second time that day memories returned unbidden.

  … The stench of Satha’s rotting flesh and the croaking horror of his voice as it whistled and bubbled past the slit throat …