She nearly jigged a few steps for joy, then remembered it was beneath the dignity of a captain to do so. Instead she leaned on the polished rail and hummed.
The door to Otter’s cabin opened. The Yerrin bard stepped out, yawning. A smile crept across his face when he saw her.
“You’re a sleepy one this morning,” she said as he joined her. “Didn’t you rest well last night? You turned in earlier than I.”
“I was talking to a friend late last night,” Otter said, “and had trouble sleeping again afterward.” His smile widened.
“Who?” she asked, idly curious. “Remon?” She knew that wasn’t right even as she said it. For one thing, the first mate rarely stayed up late; he rose at dawn to take the helm. And Otter’s grin said it was someone very different.
He looked around. “Lovely morning, isn’t it? Think I’ll stroll the deck for a bit.”
Maurynna pushed off the rail to stand squarely in his way. “Not until you explain.” She tugged the bard’s grizzled beard. “You’re teasing me—I can tell. You always get that look in your eye. Out with it!”
He looked hurt. “You wound me, Rynna. You’ve known me since you were a child and—”
“Exactly; I know you. Ot-ter!”
He leaned on the rail, looked out over the waves, and laughed. Maurynna turned her back to the following wind. She knew she could outwait Otter.
Behind her the crew hoisted another sail, singing a bawdy chorus to keep the time. The creaking lines and the flapping of the canvas formed part of the melody.
At the final “Ho!” from the crew, Maurynna looked over her shoulder to see the woad-blue sail belly out as it caught the freshening wind. The Sea Mist leaped forward on the waves. Otter grabbed the rail. Maurynna swayed with the motion of the ship and pretended not to notice.
She said, “Now—who was this mysterious friend?”
Slowly relaxing his white-knuckled grip, Otter said, “When we were in Assantik, do you remember that captain telling us that the Cassorin queen had died?”
“Ah—you mean Gajji. It’s old news; Gajji was in Cassori a long while back. It’s tragic about that pleasure barge foundering in a storm, but what has that to do with your friend?”
“A great deal, actually.” Otter smiled, clearly waiting for her to beg him to go on. When she didn’t give in, the bard gave her a fatherly nod, his eyes alight with mischief. “You’ll find out when we reach Casna.”
At her yelp of protest, Otter raised a cautionary hand. “And each time you threaten to keelhaul me, I’ll put off telling you even longer. Mm—perhaps I should wait for your birthday anyway.”
Maurynna’s frustrated curiosity nearly choked her. Blast Otter! He knew she wouldn’t snoop around the crew to find out to whom he’d been talking; it would lessen her standing as captain. She was still new enough to be touchy about her dignity.
“You—you … Pah! Why I ever agreed to give passage to an intolerable, troublemaking, annoying, and outright obnoxious Yerrin bard …” Her fingers itched to pull out Otter’s beard hair by hair.
And the bard knew every thought crossing her mind as if he could read it. She saw it in the laughing eyes. She snarled something rude in Assantikkan and stalked off, feeling a little better.
Otter leaned on the rail again and laughed.
No, she wouldn’t snoop. But she could keep her ears open in case she overheard one of the sailors talking about the conversation.
Yet it still puzzled her. Which one of the crew had Otter been talking to? What had they heard in port that she hadn’t? And why should that sailor care about what was happening in Cassori? She climbed to the quarterdeck and let the clean salt air blow her annoyance away.
Ah, well, she consoled herself. Whatever Otter’s surprise is this time, it will be well worth the waiting. They always are. But must he be such a tease about it?
Four
The field outside of Casna was jammed with people awaiting the Dragonlords’ arrival. They crowded behind the line of scarlet-clad palace guards who kept the larger section of the grassy sward free. The guards’ tabards shone like splashes of blood against the green of the grass. Banners stuck up here and there above the throng, gold and scarlet and blue, hanging limp in the still, hot air. Folk of all classes jostled and called to one another. Wine-sellers shouldered through the crowd doing a brisk business. It looked as though the entire city had come to see the fabled Dragonlords.
Kas Althume stood beneath Prince Peridaen’s canopy, enjoying the shade. Thank the gods his role as Lord Steward of the prince’s lands and possessions entitled him to such comforts; he had no wish to join the sweltering masses in the sun. Still, it irked him he could not sit in public with the prince. Standing like this made the old wound in his thigh ache. He rubbed it lightly.
“That leg bothering you again?” the prince asked.
Althume shrugged. “My leg is not important. This is. Look at the fools,” he said, his voice scornful. He leaned closer to Peridaen. “This might as well be a fair. Look how ready they are to welcome what’s been holding them back for centuries—and glad of it.”
Peridaen shrugged. “They don’t matter. And if the Fraternity has its way, the end will begin here and Dragonlords will cease their interference in truehuman affairs once and for all. Do you think your man has reached Pelnar yet?”
“Pol? He left the day we knew for certain that the Dragonlords would be appealed to. Barring unforeseen accidents, he should arrive there soon. It may take time for him to find what we need,” Althume said. “It’s been years since I’ve had word of Nethuryn.”
Seated to Peridaen’s right, Anstella, Baroness of Colrane, asked, “Kas—when he returns, do you really think you can loosen the—”
“Quiet, Anstella,” Peridaen said.
She tossed her head. “Don’t hush me, Peridaen—I’m not a child. The servants are well out of earshot. Not that they could hear me above this jabber.”
“Not a truehuman, certainly,” Althume said. “But can the Dragonlords read minds, sense intent? And from how far away? Remember, that’s one of the many things we don’t know about them. Keep all this from your mind if possible.”
Anstella inclined her head, conceding the point.
Althume looked beyond her to the nearby canopy that sheltered many of the younger nobles. One young woman caught his eye. She had the same delicacy of feature and form, the same glorious auburn hair as the baroness. But unlike the baroness, who wore the intricately twined braids of a widow, the girl’s hair spilled unbound down her back. She looked bored. Her lip curled disdainfully at the other young women as they chattered, their voices high with excitement.
Yet her hands belied that seeming aloofness as her fingers toyed incessantly with the rings adorning them. Althume guessed she was as excited as any of them.
“I see Sherrine is not succumbing to the excitement,” he said, sipping spiced wine from a chased silver goblet.
“She knows what is right, not like those empty-headed chits,” Anstella said with a toss of her head. “I’ve taught her well. No doubt they hope to snare a Dragonlord as a lover.”
So she hadn’t heard the sarcasm; he hadn’t expected her to. All too often Anstella heard—and saw—only what she wanted. Despite her dedication, that narrow-mindedness limited Anstella’s usefulness to the Fraternity. A pity Peridaen had taken up with her.
“And if the judges are all women?” Peridaen asked. “Such tears of disappointment!” He sighed and pressed a hand to his heart with a flourish. The movement disturbed the large amethyst pendant he always wore. It flashed purple fire in the sunlight.
Althume smiled thinly. “Even so, there will be male Dragonlords. It is my understanding that Dragonlords prefer not to be separated from their soultwins; the judges will no doubt bring theirs. We may have as many as six Dragonlords descending upon us.”
“Oh, gods,” the baroness said, her voice heavy with disgust. “That many?” Her lip curled much like her daughter’s.
“Calm yourself, my lady. It’s more likely there will be only four. My guess is that two of the judges will be a soultwinned couple; the fourth will simply be accompanying the third judge,” Althume explained.
“So the little fools will still have their chance,” Peridaen said, stroking his beard.
“Not likely. It is said that a soultwinned Dragonlord is immune to seduction.” Althume drank again.
“Pity; it might have sown some dissension in their ranks.” Peridaen shifted in his chair. He beckoned to a page who bore a tray of sweetmeats. The boy hastened to obey. The prince chose one. The page offered the tray to the other two, then fell back out of earshot.
“Well trained,” Althume said.
“I insist upon it,” Peridaen said as he surveyed the field once again. “Hmm—a pity even your magery couldn’t manage a love philter to ensnare a Dragonlord. Blast; I forgot. Because we don’t know if they can sense magic, you’ve had to cease—Damn! Rann is running about. Too much of that and no one will believe he’s sickly. Kas?”
Stung by Peridaen’s slight, Althume angrily craned his neck to see across the field into the pavilion of Duchess Alinya, the interim regent of Cassori. He saw the young prince capering with his wolfhound. He snarled, “I’ll see he gets more of the potion. He must not have received this morning’s dose. It won’t happen again.”
Peridaen grunted, then said irritably, “I still can’t believe Desia signed that warrant. If I’d known …”
“You really had no idea she’d named Beren as regent if the contingency arose?” Althume said.
“None whatsoever. Damned nastiest surprise I’ve had in a long while,” Peridaen said. He scowled.
Althume shrugged. It had been a setback, true, but he’d seized the opportunity to set an even more ambitious plan into action. One always had to be ready.
A scream from the crowd made him look up. People milled about, some shrieking with excitement, all pointing to the sky in the north. He shaded his eyes. After a moment he made out three dots against the blue sky. He searched for, but couldn’t find, any more.
“I thought you said there would be at least four,” Anstella said. Althume couldn’t tell whether she was disappointed or pleased.
He didn’t reply. Instead he watched the dragons approach. And wondered.
Two dragons, one brown, one yellow, flew side by side. Large as they seemed to his truehuman eyes, they were dwarfed by the dark red dragon behind them. Scales glittered in the sunlight. The three wheeled above the crowd, graceful as swallows, momentarily blotting out the sun.
Althume could feel the wind from the powerful wings as their shadows slid over him. All across the field the banners snapped in the sudden breeze, then fell limp again as the dragons passed. People screamed and ducked even though the dragons were far above them. The dragons settled on the grass well away from the crowd.
They dropped the bundles they carried between their forelegs and folded their wings. Then they moved to stand well away from each other, almost clumsy upon the earth. Their claws scored the turf. The yellow dragon limped; its right hind leg was smaller than the left.
And still no other dragon winged down from the north to join its fellows.
“I don’t understand,” Althume said. He was aware of an unreasoning annoyance deep inside. The Dragonlords had proved him wrong. And he had rushed to the edge of the canopied area to watch them as though he were one of the common herd of fools. That Peridaen and Anstella had done the same was small consolation. “Where is the other one? There should be at least one more.”
On the field, a red mist surrounded each dragon, drawing more shrieks from the crowd. Moments later three human figures stood in their places. One stood head and shoulders above the other two. Althume could see the long clan braid of a Yerrin hanging down the man’s back as he joined the others.
A glimmer of an answer came to Althume. He tensed. “Peridaen—I must see who the Dragonlords are. If the third one is who I think—”
Looking surprised, Peridaen nodded. “Since I’m a claimant for the regency, I suppose I must greet our … honored guests—” he spat the words “—and be civil. No one will think it odd if you come with me. But what—?”
“If I’m right, the fools have played right into our hands.” The memory of Peridaen’s doubt stung Althume again. We’ll see if even a Dragonlord is a match for my magic! “And do be cordial,” Althume continued. “But don’t worry; it won’t be for long.” He shook his head in mock regret. “Not long at all.”
Five
Sherrine swept into her bedchamber, surprised at the dim light within. Her gown clung damply to her. She was sticky with the heat, had a headache, and wanted a bath.
“Tandavi,” she called.
No answer.
Sherrine frowned, a tiny, becoming frown that she’d practiced many times before her mirror. Where was that fool maid? Nothing had been straightened since she’d left. Even the brocade curtains still hung across the many-paned windows.
She forgot herself and scowled at the unmade bed with its linen sheets tossed about, the gowns she’d tried on and discarded still scattered over the embroidered cushions of the chairs. The dark green silk, one of her favorites, lay crumpled on the tiled floor. Sherrine picked it up and flung it onto a chair.
Stupid cow. How dare she leave without—oh, bother. I did tell her she could go to the field, the silly chit was so excited about seeing Dragonlords.
Sherrine sniffed, glad that she was above such idiocy. Since the arrival of the messenger yesterday with the news that the Dragonlords had broken their journey just north of Casna, all she’d heard from anyone was Dragonlords, Dragonlords, and yet more Dragonlords. Tandavi was as bad as any of the fools at court.
Grumbling, Sherrine yanked her pale blue linen gown over her head, allowing it to fall to the floor. Let Tandavi pick it up. Dressed only in her fine lawn undergown, she sat on the featherbed and kicked off her satin slippers.
The fuss when those empty-headed ninnies had caught sight of the man the red dragon had Changed into! No doubt Tandavi would come back singing the praises of Linden Rathan as well.
A small voice at the back of her mind said, Ah, but he was handsome, wasn’t he?
She considered that as she threw back the lid of the carved box on the table by her bed. Catching up the small lavender-filled headache bag within, she held it to her nose. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, the scent soothing her.
A pity he was a Dragonlord. Not that that put her off—rather the contrary; Sherrine did not share her mother’s fanatical devotion to the Fraternity of Blood. To her, the Fraternity was merely a road to power.
She recalled her first glimpse of Linden Rathan: tall, with bright blond hair to his shoulders. It was only when he’d turned that she’d seen the clan braid, the long, braided lock of hair at the nape of the neck that a Yerrin man never cut.
Sherrine imagined running her fingers through the unbound length of it. She smiled; she’d always had a weakness for handsome, fair-haired men. And Linden Rathan was handsome despite the birthmark. A dalliance with him might be amusing. And to score such a coup on the other women at court! The idea appealed to her.
How unfortunate that she couldn’t act upon it. Her mother would have a fit. And that would be tiresome.
A timid knock broke her reverie. The door edged open; Tandavi peered around it.
“My lady,” the maid began. “I’m sorry; I thought I could get back before—”
Sherrine was in no mood to be understanding. “How dare you leave my chamber in this con—” She broke off at unaccustomed sounds from below. Frowning, she strained to hear.
The house steward’s voice, surprised but respectful; the click of bootheels on the tiles—more than one man, she thought—and the soft hiss of satin slippers; a low rumble of voices crossing the common room. She recognized the woman’s voice.
And what is Mother doing here, in the city house? She’s staying with Pr
ince Peridaen. Why didn’t she go back there? Ah, gods; don’t tell me they’ve quarreled and she’s come back.
Annoyance flared. Since her mother had taken to staying with the prince at his estate across the river, Sherrine had been mistress of the Colranes’ city house. She’d come to think of it as her own. She didn’t relish yielding control now to her mother. And her mother would accept nothing less.
The other voices. She thought she could guess who they were. A meeting, then, before going on to the palace.
And with Dragonlords in Casna, there was only one reason for her mother, Prince Peridaen, and Peridaen’s ever-present steward to be conferring.
This was Fraternity business.
And they hadn’t thought to include her—in her own house!
Sherrine dug her fingernails into her palms, seething at the slight. Then she smiled, the merest stretching of tight-pressed lips. Since she was the lady of this house, she should play the charming hostess, shouldn’t she?
Sherrine beckoned to Tandavi. “Fetch me a basin of cool water and a fresh gown. I must greet my guests.”
As he was escorted to the city house one of the nobles had put at his disposal, Linden thought over what they’d learned so far.
Prince Peridaen, the brother of the late queen, had been away for some time traveling in Pelnar, and had returned to Cassori only a few days after his sister’s death.
Good timing, Linden thought wryly. It had certainly inconvenienced his rival, Beren, Duke of Silvermarch, the young Prince Rann’s other uncle.
The uncle who, although invited, had not been on the barge that day. More good timing.
In the normal course of things, Peridaen would have assumed the regency without question. But it was Beren who had the warrant naming him regent to Desia’s children should ill befall her and her consort.
But not one of the Cassorin Council had known of the warrant’s existence until after Queen Desia’s death. Yet from what little Linden had overheard so far, most agreed that the document was indeed in the late queen’s hand.
The Last Dragonlord Page 3
