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Authors: Joanne Bertin

The Last Dragonlord (45 page)

BOOK: The Last Dragonlord
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“Yes.” The smile was wider.
“Oh, Gifnu’s hells; I might as well. You’d find out with the first letter Maurynna sends you after she reaches port. When I saw him this morning, Linden handed me something to give her just before she sailed. It was in a box that he made me promise not to open, so I had no idea what it was.”
He paused, hoping she’d be satisfied with that. It was the hope of a fool. Maylin took another sip and looked prepared
to wait for the stone giants of Nethris Plain to come alive again.
“Every bit as bad as your cousin, girl. As I said, until Rynna opened it, I was as ignorant of what was in it as she. And if I’d known, I would have tried to talk Linden out of it. It was a cloak brooch—a silver fox cloak brooch.”
“So? That doesn’t seem an extravagance beyond a Dragonlord’s means.”
Otter said impatiently, “You don’t understand. Rani eo’Tsan gave Linden that brooch. And he’s given it to Maurynna.”
Maylin rocked back in her chair as though she’d been slapped. But all she said was, “Did he now?” in an odd tone.
And not another word did she say while she took his tankard and her mug and washed and rinsed them in the water she drew from the kitchen cistern. But she paused on her way out of the kitchen to repeat, “Did he now?” still in that same odd tone, leaving Otter to stare after her.
Well and well and well. Dragonlords may not suspect what they are—but I think others might. It’s a good thing Maurynna’s safely away from Casna.
Althume sat at his desk
in the steward’s quarters of the prince’s city dwelling, his hands cupped before him. The soultrap jewel flared between them, icy blue light spilling over the stone.
The Solstice at last. Now was the time to gather the threads he’d spun. Now was the time of his triumph.
He would have preferred working this magic from the altar. But the distance would have been too great for the first part; he’d had to make do. Pol sat, back against the door, to guard against interruptions. Althume had done all he could to prepare for this. Time to begin.
The mage’s mind stretched outward, seeking. He sifted through the minds he felt buffeting against his own, weak untrained things, mere thistledown against the steel blade of his resolve.
There
. There was the one he sought. Althume reached out and caught the other’s mind and will in his magic. Time for the first step in his plan.
 
“My lords and ladies of the council, I thank you for agreeing to take this time from your Solstice celebrating to meet with us this evening,” Kief began.
Linden looked around the council room for what he fervently hoped was the last time. He was grateful that he could plead Tasha’s orders to get out of the celebration tonight; he was tired and felt a touch dizzy now and again.
Please the gods
, he mindspoke Tarlna,
this will be the end of it.
Let us hope so
, Tarlna replied.
I miss
—
A sudden, far-off hubbub in the hall made her break off. She and Linden looked at each other, concerned and puzzled.
The noise was not yet loud enough to catch the attention of the truehumans but it drew closer with every heartbeat.
Kief faltered. Surprised, the councilors muttered between themselves. Then even they could hear the tumult in the hall. Many forgot themselves so far as to rise from the table, Prince Peridaen among them. The pendant he always wore flashed amethyst fire in the candlelight.
Then Linden heard a name that brought him out of his chair with a rush. He made for the door.
It swept open almost in his face. Captain Tev, commander of the palace guards, entered. Behind him tottered an old man with a heavy burden clutched to his chest. The moment the old man saw Linden, he held it out.
Tsan Rhilin.
“Old Urlic found it, Dragonlord,” the old man quavered. “Hidden in the windowseat, it was, but I found it.”
The council room erupted into bewildered uproar as Linden accepted the greatsword from the old servant’s trembling hands.
 
Althume could feel Peridaen’s surprise and consternation surge though the amethyst amulet. Things were progressing as they should, then. He began the incantations over the soultrap jewel. Feeling the magical energies build within him, he formed it as a spear, holding it ready within his mind. He had already touched his intended victim once; this time he would strike in earnest.
 
Linden gripped Tsan Rhilin’s hilt with both hands, exerting every ounce of self-control not to draw it. His voice tight with wrath, he said, “Urlic—tell me where you found this sword.”
But the noise and confusion had upset the old man; he hunched his shoulders against the furor and fell to whimpering. “I don’t understand. I just wanted to be certain the moths hadn’t gotten into the curtains. It suddenly came into my mind, you see. I couldn’t remember if I’d put the herb bags in. I forget so much these days.” He trailed off, nearly
weeping now. Turning to Beren, the old man pleaded, “My lord Duke,
you
understand, don’t you? I didn’t mean no harm. Why are they fussing so?”
Beren made his way to the man’s side. He patted his old servant’s shoulder as the man snuffled and muttered to himself. “I don’t understand what’s going on here, Urlic, but of course you didn’t mean any harm. You just did your duty, old fellow.”
“Oh, gods; Kief, get that poor old man out of here and somewhere quiet. I can’t stand to see him like that,” Tarlna said. “Please.”
Kief motioned to one of the guards that had entered with Urlic. The guard slipped a gentle hand beneath the old servant’s elbow and eased him from the press. As he left the room, the old man moaned over and over, “I had to. Didn’t mean no harm. But I had to. I had to look in there.”
Linden shuddered as the door closed behind the weeping servant. “Since Urlic is incapable, Captain Tev, I’ll ask you to tell us as much as you know.”
“As you wish, Dragonlord.” Tev licked his lips nervously and began. “I was making the rounds of the guard stations and had just entered the hall that a number of the royal apartments open onto when I saw old Urlic come out of a door. He was carrying your greatsword, Dragonlord.”
Lord Duriac asked, “Which door, Captain?”
Tev looked down, at the walls, the ceiling, anywhere that he didn’t have to meet someone’s eyes. But he drew himself up and said quietly but clearly, “The door to His Grace Duke Beren’s rooms, my lord.”
Linden whipped around to face Beren. The duke’s jaw hung open. That look of astonishment was all that kept Linden from grabbing Beren and hurling the man against a wall, it so surprised him in his turn. The other Cassorins backed away from Beren as though the captain had named him plague ridden.
Beren finally recovered his wits enough to gasp, “It’s a damned lie!”
The stocky guard captain said, “I’m sorry, sir. Truly I’m
sorry. But that’s how it was. Poor Urlic was all upset; kept babbling about the windowseat. Then he said he had to bring the Dragonlord’s sword back to him, that it broke his heart that his master had, had …”
Had damn near killed me
, Linden thought grimly.
Beren stood, shocked into muteness now, shaking his head.
“Beren,” Duchess Alinya said. “Have you an explanation for this?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Lord Duriac asked. “He was afraid that the decision would go the other way and tried to delay things. Or perhaps you’re one of the Fraternity of Blood, Beren. Were you seeking Linden Rathan’s death?”
The furor doubled at Duriac’s words.
“Be quiet! All of you—this instant!” Duchess Alinya cried. She looked up at the Duke of Silvermarch. “Beren, you have heard the accusations and what proof has been brought against you. It grieves me, but until we have the truth of this matter I must hold you accountable. Guards!”
They came reluctantly, but they came. One on each side, they took Beren’s arms and led him to the door. As if the movement shattered the hold on his tongue, Beren yelled, “I had nothing to do with it! Nothing—do you hear? I’ve no idea how that damned sword got into my chambers or what possessed Urlic to look there! Ask Peridaen!”
 
Peridaen’s panic blazed through the amulet. It was time to strike. Althume concentrated a moment longer, honing the sleek and lethal power of the spear within his mind, then hurled it at his target. The soultrap jewel glowed more brilliantly than ever, crystalline fire under his fingers, glowing like the morning star. Althume smiled, admiring it. So beautiful—and so deadly. A lovely thing indeed. And soon he would accomplish what even Ankarlyn had not been able to do.
He would destroy the link that bound a Dragonlord’s two souls.
Sweeping a finger along the
line of the coast on one of the charts spread out on the table in her cabin, Maurynna was reviewing their coastal route to Pelnar when all hell broke loose in her mind.
First, surprise; then an anger so powerful that it almost knocked her to her knees. She clenched the edge of the table for support. The anger was fury now, white-hot and blinding, burning throughout her body. She dropped to the floor and curled into a ball, paralyzed by the onslaught.
She clenched every muscle, armoring herself against the rage. Otter’s last words to her came into her mind; she strove to fight the anger down.
Maurynna’s breath came in short, hard gasps. An image flowered unbidden in her mind: a small, white-haired woman, seen from behind. The woman turned to face her. To Maurynna’s surprise (yet somehow she wasn’t surprised; she knew what to expect. How?), the woman was young despite the white hair, with a thin, sharp face and piercing violet eyes—a warrior’s eyes.
A greatsword lay cradled in her arms. The woman’s gaze met Maurynna’s for an instant. Then the white-haired woman looked past Maurynna to someone standing just behind her. Torchlight (
But it’s still light outside!
Maurynna’s mind wailed) glinted on a round silver cloak pin at her shoulder as she offered up the sword she carried.
The image vanished like a moth in a flame, leaving only the rage behind. With all her will Maurynna forced the fury back. It receded, bit by reluctant bit, until she was once more in control. She sat up, shaking, wondering.
Her mind was too bruised and battered to make sense of
what she’d seen—if indeed there was any sense to be made of it. She bethought herself of the bottle of herbed wine in her chest, kept there for emergencies; Remon always joked one sip would rouse a dead man. It might not do that, but it might shock her brain back on an even keel. But before she could reach the chest, horror and fear stabbed her heart. She cried out, “No!
No!”
Then, unable to bear any more, Maurynna fainted.
 
Beren raged as the guards dragged him away. Many of his supporters surged to and fro like sheep terrified by a wolf’s attack, babbling and bleating among themselves.
Clutching Tsan Rhilin as though he’d never let it out of his sight again, Linden followed Kief and Tarlna as they moved to the far end of the room, there to watch faces, see what they revealed, listen to what was said—and what wasn’t.
One moment the three of them stood together. The next, Tarlna gasped and collapsed, striking the floor before Kief could catch her. Kief fell to his knees, fingers at his soultwin’s throat, desperately seeking a pulse.
Shocked, Linden stood staring. Then fear devoured him. “Tarlna? Oh, gods—no! No! She can’t be dead!” he cried, and dropped to his knees at the stricken Dragonlord’s other side.
If the reappearance of Tsan Rhilin had caused pandemonium, this was pure chaos. “Get back!” Linden yelled as the members of the Cassorin council crowded around them. He brought the sheathed greatsword up crosswise and pushed none too gently against the nearest councilors. By the grace of the gods, for once they didn’t argue but fell back, taking the others with them.
Linden said quietly but forcefully, “Do not crowd us again, or it will go ill with you. Someone send for Healer Tasha.”
He mindspoke Kief.
What’s wrong with her?
I don’t know! I can feel her fading as though something’s sucking the life from her,
Kief said. He frantically patted Tarlna’s face in an attempt to rouse her. She didn’t respond.
Linden said,
I’ve never heard of any illness like—
I don’t think she’s ill. This has the same feel about it as when I examined you in that field.
Kief gathered Tarlna in his arms and cradled her against his chest. Her blond curls shone against the black of his formal tunic. He pressed his cheek against her forehead.
Linden guessed Kief was using the bond between them to seek along the “trail” formed by the magical attack. Judging by the growing pallor of the elder Dragonlord’s face, he was also lending the strength of his life force to his soultwin in an effort to keep her alive.
Knowing there was nothing he could do to aid Kief, Linden stood up. He placed himself between his fellow Dragonlords and the Cassorins and drew Tsan Rhilin. At least he could guard them—not that anyone was likely to try an attack with this many witnesses. But his mercenary’s training demanded he do something.
I … can’t … follow,
Kief’s agonized mindvoice said.
Not strong enough.
Before Linden could reply, a voice like thunder in the mountains rolled through his mind.
*I will aid thee, humansoul Kief.*
Linden started in surprise. Only deeply ingrained training kept him from forgetting his self-appointed duty. That mindvoice could only belong to Shaeldar, Kief’s draconic half. For a dragonsoul to rouse on its own was almost unheard of; that he, Linden, could hear it was even more so. He wondered if Shaeldar would retreat as Rathan had done.
Linden forced his attention back to the truehumans. They stared at the motionless struggle going on behind him. The room was so quiet Linden heard only Kief’s harsh breathing.
The silence stretched on for what seemed an eternity but was in truth only moments. Then a came a tiny, mewling gasp: Tarlna. He chanced a quick look over his shoulder.
Her eyes were still closed and she looked terrible, but now her chest rose and fell in a steady if shallow rhythm.
Damn!
The mindvoice was pure Kief. Linden heaved a sigh of relief.
What happened?
he asked.
We—Shaeldar and I—were following along the thread of magic when it just ended. I think the mage felt us and ceased his or her attack. Shaeldar said that this magic is tainted with much blood and death.
Blood and death. The words touched an echo in his mind. But the errant notion fled as Healer Tasha ran into the council room.
 
Damn, damn, damn!
Althume slammed a fist against the desk, ignoring the pain. He’d been so close! Damn the Dragonlord. He hadn’t thought the man would risk rousing the dragonsoul. But the bastard had indeed, may he rot in the deepest hells.
Althume reined in his anger and examined the events of the past few minutes. The soultrap jewel glowed more brightly than ever, but it was still not charged enough for what he intended. He would have to take the risk of using the boy after all. At least he had sensed the hunters coursing the trail left by the magical attack before they could find him. That was to the good. He needn’t worry about anyone coming after him. And Peridaen no doubt had his paltry regency after the farce just played out in the council room—as if that mattered a single copper.
He replaced the soultrap jewel in its silk-lined box and shut it away. Althume rose to his feet.
“My lord—did it work?” Pol asked.
“No. Kief Shaeldar—
both
parts of Kief Shaeldar—interfered. We’ll have to move fast. You know what to do. Then meet me in the woods. Oh—and Pol? The girl knows too much.”
BOOK: The Last Dragonlord
12.54Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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