The Last Dragonlord (22 page)

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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: The Last Dragonlord
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The sailors saluted and shoved off into the surf. None of them bothered hiding their smiles now. Maurynna glared at them until they were beyond the breakers.
Linden rested a hand on her shoulder for a moment. With a wink, he said, “Let’s get the food into the shade. Then we can enjoy ourselves.”
She blushed even more as he led the way to the awning.
 
The children scampered through the foam the dying waves cast up upon the sand. Their voices carried back on the breeze, excited and happy, calling to each other over every new shell. Maylin and Tasha trailed along behind.
Linden paused as he arranged the driftwood for the fire to bake the sweet tubers Otter had insisted on bringing along.
“They’re getting along wonderfully,” he said. “I’d hoped that would happen.”
Otter handed him another stick. “I think Rann’s put aside being a prince because he’s seen you not being a Dragonlord out of legend. He wants to be just like you, I think.”
Maurynna looked up from wrapping sweet tubers in seaweed. “You noticed it, too?”
The firewood arranged to his satisfaction, Linden sat back on his heels and asked, “What do you mean?”
“He asked that we call him just ‘Rann’ when he found out that you gave us permission to dispense with your titles.” Maurynna gathered the slippery tubers in her arms; Linden hastened to help her, letting his fingers slide over hers. Together they arranged them by the side of the fire pit.
“And he asked me to call him ‘boyo.’” Otter chuckled. “Damn well the worst case of hero worship I’ve ever seen. Don’t look so embarrassed! There are worse things he could aspire to—though I can’t think of ’em right now.”
Linden muttered something rude under his breath for the jibe, but was flattered by their words. “I like Rann. He makes me think of my step-son, Ash,” he said without thinking. He invoked the spell to start the fire; it blazed up under his hand.
Maurynna gasped. “What? Your—your …”
Linden mentally kicked himself. He couldn’t have come up with a worse way to tell her of his past life if he’d tried. “I was married once, Maurynna—a very long time ago. After we’d put Rani on the throne, Bram hadn’t the heart to keep up the mercenary company without her. Anyway, his father needed him; his brother, the heir, was mortally ill. We disbanded. Bram returned to his father’s hall and I to mine. My father arranged a marriage between me and a young widow with a son. Her name was Bryony; her son’s name was Ash.
“It went well enough at first. Bryony and I were content with each other and I came to love Ash as my own. But …”
He looked away. Even with all the intervening centuries, the old humiliation still burned, the remembered taunts still cut deep.
Mule.
Studying the cliff wall, he said, holding his voice steady with an effort, “But Dragonlord and truehuman
can’t breed. Of course, neither I nor anyone else knew I was a Dragonlord at that time. All we knew was that I couldn’t get her with child. So, after three years, she repudiated our marriage oath.” He took a deep breath. “It—it was not an easy time for me. She was not kind about it. Neither were many of my kin.”
Silence followed his words. Otter, of course, already knew about it. He wondered what Maurynna would think.
She put all her heart into one word. “Bitch.”
He studied her. The odd-colored eyes blazed with anger.
My soultwin doesn’t think any less of me—so why should I care what a woman six centuries dead thought?
To his surprise the realization banished the pain any thought of Bryony had always brought him. He sighed with long overdue relief and shifted around so that he could rest an arm around Maurynna’s shoulders. All he dared was a quick, hard hug. “It’s a long time over.”
Otter said, “I think the coals are right for the sweet tubers, Linden. Why don’t you put them in?”
Linden poked a finger among the blazing coals. He looked up at a choked-off exclamation from Maurynna. One hand was clamped over her mouth and her eyes bade fair to pop out of her head.
Oh, gods. He’d gone and startled the hell out of her again. Otter, blast him, was laughing as if his sides would split. Belatedly Linden realized he’d been tricked. His hand still in the coals, he said, “Maurynna-love, it’s all right. Truly it is. It’s not comfortable—think what it feels like to stick your hands into very hot water—but it’s bearable and I’ll take no harm from it. Fire can’t hurt me.”
She swallowed hard. The hand came down to clench at her chest. “I—I know that. It’s in the stories. B-but to see it—” She shivered.
Fuming, Linden made holes in the glowing embers and tucked the seaweed-wrapped sweet tubers into them. “I ought to make you do this, you wretch,” he growled at Otter.
“What? And have me burn my fingers so that I can’t play when we’ve finished eating? Tchah. That would mean I’d
have to sing to your playing. And I’ll wager anything you’ve not been practicing much of late.”
Linden grinned. “No, I haven’t. Anyway, I’d much rather have you do the harping while Maurynna and I loll about watching you. Right, love?” he asked with a wink.
She was, he decided, lovely when she blushed.
 
To Maurynna the day passed like a dream. Walking along the beach, chasing the happy children through the waves foaming along the sand, or playing hide-and-seek among the rocks—and Linden Rathan by her side almost every moment.
It was the most perfect day of her life, yet—Linden had seemed to hold back, to avoid being alone with her. And now the gig had been summoned from the ship; this day would soon be only a memory.
So she had taken this last walk alone and out of sight of the others. She leaned back against one of the tall rocks that rose so abruptly from the shore, one foot braced against it, and closed her eyes.
Well and well, she hadn’t really expected that he’d continue as he’d started in the hold of the
Sea Mist
and the garden, had she? After all, he dallied with the most beautiful girl in Cassori.
Well, yes—I did hope that,
she thought. Her mind answered,
Silly girl. Why should he—
A shadow fell across her. She jumped, alert once more.
Linden stood before her. He was fully dressed now, ready for the trip back to Casna.
She waited. His hands came up, slowly, as if against his will. Hardly able to breathe, she stood trembling as he cupped her face between his hands.
All he said was “Maurynna.” Quietly, like a prayer.
It was enough.
A harsh yell shattered the moment.
Maurynna gasped as Linden spun around and sprang away with a speed no truehuman could match. Stumbling in the soft sand, she ran after him.
As she came around the rocks, the sight that greeted her made her stop in shock. Ropes dangled from the top of the cliffs, twitching like snakes as armed men slid down them.
Linden yelled “Maurynna, Otter—clear the beach for me!”
That broke her momentary paralysis. She raced to where Maylin and Healer Tasha were snatching up the children. Otter came from the other direction. “To the water’s edge!” she yelled. “Get to the water’s edge!”
She risked a glance at the men on the ropes; they were nearly to the beach. Would Linden have time to Change?
Then she was upon the others and pushing them toward the water.
 
Linden looked over his shoulder. Maurynna and Otter, the latter now carrying Kella, Maylin and Tasha, bearing Rann, stood knee-deep in the foamy surf. Their faces were stark with fear. Beyond them he could see the ship’s boat pulling for shore. It would never get here in time.
He turned back to watch their attackers with a wordless snarl of frustration. Without thinking, he’d ordered the beach cleared to give himself room to Change.
And that was the one thing he couldn’t do. Not with Maurynna only yards away. Yet he had little chance in human form, unarmed as he was, if enough men rushed him. To defend Rann—and he had no doubt that’s who these men
were after—he would have to take the risk of Changing.
He had only moments to decide. If the men reached him in the middle of Change and thrust a sword into the mist he became he would be unmade; and that would be far worse for Maurynna.
Tormented by indecision, he hesitated too long and the choice was made for him. The first men reached the packed sand at the foot of the cliff. But to his surprise, instead of rushing him, they simply steadied the ropes for those coming after them. One even saluted him.
Now Linden realized he recognized some of them; he’d seen them at the palace, wearing the scarlet of the palace guard. What was their game here?
His answer came when Beren slid down. Pulling leather gloves from his hands with impatient fury, the red-haired duke strode across the intervening beach and planted himself before Linden. Aside from the customary belt dagger for eating, the man was unarmed. Though still wary, Linden relaxed a little.
“I’ve come to take my nephew home,” Beren snarled. He glanced over Linden’s shoulder and a perplexed look shot across his face. His eyes darted from side to side, and the look of puzzlement grew.
“Up that?” Linden said in derision, jerking a thumb at the cliff, even as he wondered at Beren’s puzzlement.
Their eyes met. For a moment Linden thought the man would strike him. But Beren controlled himself after one abortive movement; the only sign of his temper now was the clenching and unclenching of his big fists.
“Any way I have to,” Beren said with quiet anger.
Another voice answered before Linden could. It spoke with an anger that matched the duke’s.
“Only over my very dead body, will you take that boy, my lord.”
Healer Tasha marched past Linden. She looked ready to explode with wrath. “Have you any idea what a ride that long will do to Rann, my lord?” she said, her voice shaking with fury.
Beren didn’t answer that. Instead, to Linden’s surprise, the duke looked up and down the beach once more and asked, “Where’s Gevianna? She must be here. And did Peridaen come?”
“Gevianna,” Tasha snapped, “is sleeping in her bed after being dosed with syrup of poppy.”
“But Ber—,” interrupted the duke, then shut his mouth with a snap.
Tasha went on, “The thought of a trip by sea upset her badly, and since I was coming along, her services were not needed. As for Prince Peridaen, my lord, I have no idea where he is. And Rann is
not
going with you. It would not only undo all the good this day has done him, it would exhaust him to the point of a serious relapse. As his Healer, I will not allow it.”
She folded her arms across her chest.
And that is that!
the gesture said.
Beren rubbed his chin. “So neither Peridaen nor Gevianna is here,” he said as if to himself. “Still,” he said, hand dropping to his side once more, “still, Rann comes with me.”
“No,” said Tasha.
“Yes,” said Beren. He raised a hand as if to summon his men.
Time to take a hand in this. It was not something Linden relished doing; no one liked having his authority challenged by an outsider. If Beren hadn’t hated him before this …
“No,” Linden said with quiet finality. “Rann does not go home with you, my lord Duke. He returns on board the ship with the rest of us and under Healer Tasha’s care.”
Beren’s face turned brick red with fury. The man wasn’t stupid; he knew what was coming next.
“Dragonlord’s orders,” Linden said.
Beren’s lips drew back in a snarl, baring strong white teeth. One hand even darted toward his belt dagger. Linden braced himself for an attack.
Then Beren turned on his heel and strode back to his waiting men, and Linden knew he’d made an enemy.
The old solar was quiet
so late in the afternoon. The round room was high up in a tower that jutted out from the oldest part of the palace. Few people cared to take the time to seek out the old-fashioned solar now that the new, larger one was the favored gathering place of the ladies of the palace. All of which made this room perfect for a summer afternoon of solitude.
Long, narrow lancet windows marched along the outer walls looking out over the river far below. One could trace the line of the river, moving widdershins from window to window. At the last to overlook the brown waters of the Uildodd, the sea began, revealing itself as a silver flash along the horizon to the south.
The last of the sunlight streamed in through the westerly windows, illuminating the oak planking caught in their spear tips of light. Sherrine sat curled up in one of the chairs scattered around the room. She watched the patterns of light and shadow in their advance across the honey-colored wood of the floor. She was glad that no one had ever thought to cover it with tiles. The oak had a warmth that tiles lacked.
Best of all her mother never came here. Sherrine bit her lip at the thought of her parent; of late, her mother had been acting, well, oddly.
Always acid-tongued, her mother had outdone herself the past few days. Sherrine clenched her fists as a memory of her mother’s taunts echoed in her mind.
You think you’re special because of your Dragonlord lover? Bah! He’ll find better—it won’t be hard.
You are fiawed. Never forget that. You’re flawed and it makes you worthless.
Where’s your precious Linden Rathan, little fool? Perhaps he’s come to his senses; who’d want you with that hideous birthmark splashed across your back? It must have made him sick to look at; the mere thought of it makes me ill.
Sherrine had made the mistake of pointing out that Linden Rathan himself had the same kind of birthmark. It had simply sparked her mother into a vicious tirade the likes of which Sherrine had never dreamed possible. Inured as she was to her mother’s constant insults, Sherrine had run from the room in tears.
And then there was the fear that she saw now in her mother’s eyes when they lit upon her. A fear that came from the soul—
No. She’d no longer think about such things. They did not exist.
She would think only about
now.
How the solar was warm and she was pleasantly drowsy. It was enough to sink into the soft cushions, awaiting Tandavi’s return from her post outside the council chamber. The surprise holiday from the meetings had been tedious. She was glad they’d resumed. Linden always appreciated her company after a particularly trying day.
She wondered if he would return with her servant. Surely by now he’d fulfilled his obligation to his Yerrin friend and could join her for a late dinner tonight. She smiled, knowing what was sure to follow.
And, of course, she would do her best to get more information from him. After all, she mustn’t forget her reason for this dalliance. She stretched with the languorous ease of a cat. This was more pleasure than business—just the way she liked it.
As she settled herself again, Sherrine heard laughing voices approach. She rolled her eyes at the amount of giggling. It gave her a fair idea of who was about to disturb her sanctuary: Niathea and her flock of featherheads. She wondered if they’d been asked to leave the other solar for being too noisy; it had happened more than once.
They burst through the wide doorway as Niathea declaimed, “My dears, I tell you I saw—”
“Hello, Niathea,” Sherrine said, her voice pure honey. She despised the girl and had no compunction about showing it.
Niathea stopped short in surprise, her mouth hanging open, red-brown curls tumbled in their usual disarray. Her face was shiny with perspiration. The others gathered behind her like a flock of chicks hiding in the safety of their mother’s shadow.
Sherrine longed for an apple to pop into that open mouth. Niathea had such piggy little eyes it needed only that final touch to complete the resemblance to the traditional Winter Solstice boar’s head.
And it would silence the intolerable twit.
Sherrine readied one of the many barbs she held in reserve for those who annoyed her. The words died on her tongue as she saw the sly looks the girls with Niathea now slanted from the corners of their eyes at each other. More than one hand came up to hide a smile. Some didn’t bother; their smirks sent a warning chill down her back. They fanned out around Niathea as if jockeying for a view of some spectacle. Worse yet was the look of patently false sympathy that Niathea arranged on her face.
Sherrine’s mouth went dry. Something inside her cowered as Niathea’s eyes gloated. She wanted nothing more than to run from the solar, hands clapped over her ears. She’d die before giving the cow that satisfaction.
So she remained seated and even smiled. “Yes, Niathea?” she drawled. “I can see that you’re simply dying to tell me something—which I no doubt already know. But if it will give you pleasure …” She breathed an exaggerated sigh.
Niathea’s face turned an unbecoming shade of brick red. For a moment her face contorted as if her words choked her. Then the smile was back and so venomous that Sherrine regretted baiting her. Niathea advanced, stubby-fingered hands clasped to ample bosom. The others followed her like ravens ready to descend on a battlefield.
Niathea cooed, “Oh, Sherrine—you poor dear. To think!
That Linden Rathan would
do
such a thing! I’m so sorry.”
Sherrine’s blood turned to ice. She said, more sharply than she’d meant, “What do you mean?” She bit her lip; she must have more control of herself than that—or Niathea would be spreading the tale far and wide.
Niathea blinked innocently. “Why, you don’t know? Oh—the cad! That he would let you think that he was yours alone!” She brushed an imaginary tear from her eye.
Sherrine squirmed. The other young ladies of the court believed that only because she’d taken pains to hammer it into their dull heads, thinking it might eliminate competition. To an extent her ruse had worked. Now it was coming back to haunt her.
After an eternity, Niathea said, “I was in the merchants’ district yesterday with my lady mother. We were looking for silk—I’m to have a new gown of Assantikkan silk.”
Oh, get to it!
Sherrine thought. She’d forgotten how Niathea could dawdle all around the point of a story. “How nice,” she murmured.
“We were trying to decide between the green and the violet silks when, from the back room, comes the merchant and this great
horse
of a Thalnian woman—Thalnian women are so tall, don’t you think that’s ugly? Though she was slender, I’ll give her that. Anyway,” Niathea said, warming to her tale, “she was low-born; I could see that at a glance. She was as brown as a sailor—that’s exactly what I thought: ‘brown as a sailor’—and don’t you know that the merchant’s apprentice who was helping us said, ‘Good day, Captain—’” Niathea faltered. She bit her lip, thinking, then waved a hand, saying, “Oh, I can’t remember the name; who cares about a Thalnian sailor, anyway?”
The look she flashed at Sherrine from under lowered lashes said that she thought at least one person certainly would.
Sherrine made no move. She couldn’t have if she’d wanted to—not now.
Niathea’s lower lip jutted out. It seemed that she wasn’t getting the reaction she wanted. She continued, speaking faster and faster, “The sailor talked to the merchant a bit, I don’t
know what they said because they spoke Assantikkan, and there was laughter coming from the back room. She called to the people there. I glanced at them when they came out: another girl who looked Cassorin and two Yerrin men—one a bit older than us, the other a greybeard wearing a bard’s torc. The merchant switched to Cassorin and kept saying what an honor it was.
“At first I didn’t pay them any mind, not really. Why should I? They were commoners. I didn’t bother about them until the younger man talked—he sounded familiar. He said something about wanting to see shadow puppets or some such thing. But he kept his face turned away so that I almost didn’t recognize him. After all, I’ve never seen him when he wasn’t wearing the formal regalia. He wasn’t even wearing his torc of rank.
“They all talked a bit more with the merchant, something about a feast, and they were all laughing together.”
Niathea stopped and heaved a great breath as if she’d run through her entire tale without breathing once. She looked down, folded her lips over a smile, and said, “I’m so sorry, Sherrine dear.”
Sherrine nearly laughed aloud.
This
was Niathea’s great tale of woe for her? She smiled at Niathea and thought how pleasant it was to disappoint the poisonous little bitch.
Sherrine raised her eyebrows. Letting her amusement color her voice, she said, “My dearest Niathea, I already knew about Linden’s bard friend and that he would be spending time with him. He spoke to me of him some time ago. So you see, there is nothing in your little story for you to be … upset … about.”
But who are the women—especially the Thalnian? I don’t like the way Niathea looked when
—Sherrine cut off the thought. She continued as if instructing a particularly simple child: “The bard is Otter Heronson, as you would have known if you—”
Gone now was any pretense at sympathy. “She—the sailor—called him Linden,” Niathea said in triumph. “They all did, but you could hear the caress in her voice when
she
said his name. And he didn’t stop her—oh, no. When they were outside the shop, he held her back a moment and kissed her before they went off down the street after the others. And he put his arm around her shoulders.”
Niathea’s lips curled in a cruel smile. She pushed the sweaty curls back from her face and leaned forward, her face only inches away.
Sherrine pressed herself back into the cushions.
Niathea’s eyes blazed and venom poured forth from her tongue like a river that had been dammed for too long. “All along you’ve been gloating because Linden Rathan chose you, lording it over the rest of us, bragging how he was yours alone. Not anymore. You’ve been thrown over for a great horse of a Thalnian—a sailor, no less—as sunburned and calloused as any peasant behind a plow.
“I saw the way he looked at her, Sherrine. You’ve lost him—forever.”
 
She had no memory of leaving the solar. Only of mocking laughter chasing her.
Tandavi found her stumbling through the halls. The servant’s slim arms caught her, held her tightly.
“My lady! What’s wrong?” Tandavi cried.
Sherrine wiped her eyes. For a moment she stared at Tandavi without recognizing her. Then she collected her wits and whispered, “What answer did Linden Rathan give you?”
That answer would tell her whether Niathea lied—or whether she had indeed lost him. When Tandavi didn’t speak right away, Sherrine shook her. “Tell me!”
“H-he—he looked annoyed, said he had another engagement, my lady, the friend he’d told—Ow! My lady!” Tandavi clutched at her wrists.
Sherrine numbly watched the blood well up in the furrows her nails had dug on the girl’s arms. The pattern of red against white skin fascinated her.
“Oh, gods, Tandavi—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to …” She came to herself abruptly. Oh, gods indeed—she must be more shaken than she thought, apologizing to a servant.
Tandavi gulped in surprise. “It’s no matter, my lady,” she sniffled. “But what’s wrong—?”
“Nothing. Be quiet. Let me think.” Sherrine leaned back against the cold granite wall of the narrow hallway, glad that few people came to this older section. The fewer who saw her like this, the better. She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, willing herself to calmness.
She would not give up Linden without a fight. That was unthinkable; her pride would not allow it. Even if her rival had been noble-born, she would not have stood meekly aside. But that she should be cast aside for a commoner!
And there was her mother. Sherrine could already hear Anstella gloating: “Little fool—can’t you do anything right? He threw you over for a sailor?”
An image of calloused hands, brown against Linden’s fair skin, came to her mind. She saw them running down his back … . She ground her hands into her eyes, banishing the picture. She must think this through.
First, she had to find out her rival’s name. But how? She could hardly search the docks looking for a Thalnian woman who captained a ship.
How, how, how?
“Gerd Warbek.” Sherrine dropped her hands. Surely the merchant knew who the captains were or knew how to find out. It might take him a few days, but Warbek would find out for her; the man would do anything to keep the patronage of the Colranes.
She pushed herself off from the wall. “Oh, yes; he’s the person to ask. Come along, Tandavi. I’ve business with Master Warbek. And then with a certain Thalnian sailor.”

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