Worst of all, the memory of Satha kneeling over him as he lay mortally wounded … Fingers of burning cold, slick with his blood, groping alo ng the edges of the gaping wound, and a smell of rotting meat following him as he fell into the welcome darkness, away from the agony of the Healing …
Linden looked into Rann’s eyes. “No,” he lied. It was not something he did lightly, but if a small falsehood would ease the child’s mind, he’d lie gladly. Someday he’d come back when Rann was older and tell him the truth. “Satha wasn’t dead.” He smiled; it felt tight and false.
He thanked the gods that the younger guard returned then, sparing him any further questions. Cammine resumed her post by the door. Her eyes slid to look back the way she’d come.
A slender young woman turned the corner into the hall. The woman had a pinched face, with a tight-lipped mouth that had certainly never smiled. She looked as though she smelled a dead rat three days after the cat had hidden it.
Linden blinked in surprise. This Gevianna didn’t look the sort to romp with a little boy and a wolfhound.
She wasn’t. And she wasn’t Gevianna, as he found when Rann sighed and said, “Good day, Lady Beryl.” Then, to Linden, “Dragonlord, this is my governess.”
“My lady,” Linden began. “Prince Rann—”
Lady Beryl cut him off. “Come with me, Your Highness. It’s time for your lessons.”
A quick pressure of the thin arms around his neck and then Rann twitched, asking to be set down. Linden obliged. The governess snatched Rann’s hand and turned away—but not before Linden saw her expression change. Now she looked like a cat that had a baby bird fall from a tree straight into its paws.
She walked so fast Rann had to trot to keep up, hopping at every third step. His shoulders slumped as he pattered along, head down.
Linden called after her, “Lady Beryl, it would seem best if Prince Rann—”
She kept walking. “I believe I know what’s best for the child, Dragonlord.” She made the title sound like an obscenity. “Good day.”
He stared as Rann and his governess disappeared around the corner, then glanced sideways at the guards. They stared intently at nothing.
“Ah,” he said under his breath. He looked thoughtfully at Captain Tev, one eyebrow raised. After a long moment Tev met his eyes. The captain gave a tiny nod and a wry smile and opened the door for him.
It seemed Dragonlords were not in favor with Lady Beryl. As he entered the council chamber once again, Linden wondered how many others in Casna shared her feelings.
Eight
The door to the gardens was open. He could smell the roses from the maze on the breeze. Somewhere in the nearby darkness the brass chimes hanging from one of the peach trees rang softly. Linden sat with his back to the dining table, looking out into the warm night, rolling the stem of a silver goblet between his fingers.
He’d never known of such chimes before coming to Casna. The first night he’d heard them, the sweet sound had lured him into the garden until he’d found the source. Entranced, he’d called Aran, the house steward, and questioned him.
“They’re from Assantik, Your Grace,” the steward had told him. “A trader brought the first about two years ago; they immediately became all the rage among the high-born. A pleasant sound, isn’t it, my lord? Very soothing.”
Soothing indeed. Linden yawned. He must remember to get some and bring them to the Lady; she would enjoy them. So would Lleld. He drank, savoring the wine and the melodious chiming.
Memories of Rann’s haggard face sprang up to shatter the tranquil moment. The muscles of Linden’s neck and shoulders knotted with the remembered tensions of the council chamber. He shook his head angrily.
What is wrong with the boy that he could take such a turn for the worse? Isn’t there a Healer at the palace to attend him?
Linden slouched down in the chair, his long legs straight out before him. He studied his boot toes and came to a decision.
There must be a Healer, blast it—and I’m going to talk to him or her. Tonight.
“Aran,” he called aloud. When the house steward appeared, Linden said, “Tell Captain Jerrell that I wish to return to the palace, but not to rouse the full escort. He and one other soldier will do.”
The young woman pulled her hooded cloak tighter as she hurried through the starlit gardens, clinging to the pools of deeper darkness by the walls. Gods, how she hated these meetings! It always felt as though eyes watched her, eyes that belonged to creatures best unnamed. Tales that her grandmother had told long ago came back to haunt her and the flesh at the back of her neck prickled.
At last she reached the part of the gardens known as the ladies’ bower. A huge sigh of relief escaped her as she made out a figure already there. At least this night she wouldn’t have to wait while her imagination peopled the heavy darkness with bogles and demons.
“You’re late.” The dulcet voice was cold and imperious.
“My apologies, my lady Baroness. I could not get away before now.” She made a courtesy.
The Baroness of Colrane sniffed. “Try harder next time.” From beneath her cloak she drew out a small flask. “Here. This is the new tonic for the boy. Be certain he gets it; you have been careless a time or two lately.”
The young woman dropped another courtesy and took the flask. “I will try, my lady. But sometimes the Healer or the apprentice Quirel is there when it’s time to dose the child and I cannot.” Then, gathering up her courage, she said, “My lady Baroness … These potions—they’re not … poisonous, are they?” She looked at the earthen bottle in her hand as if it might turn into a snake.
“Second thoughts, girl? You’re in too deep to back out now. Besides, what would happen to your worthless brother?” A pause, then, “If the money to pay his gambling debts stopped, of course.” The baroness smiled coldly. “You really should let him lie in the bed he makes for himself, you know.”
All the gods as her witnesses, she didn’t trust that smile. She didn’t trust any of this lot; she had her suspicions about the queen’s death.
But what could she do? The woman was right; she was in too deep to back out now. And the money … She had no choice; if Kerrivel couldn’t pay his debts to the young lordlings, he’d be imprisoned. And that would kill Father, he was so proud.
The baroness went on, “Still, if it is any consolation to you: no, none of the tonics you have given Rann are poisonous. None will be. They are merely meant to keep him quiet and biddable. Do not ask why this is necessary; it is the business of your betters and not yours.”
Once again the noblewoman’s hand disappeared beneath her cloak; this time, when it reappeared, it held a pouch that clinked. She tossed it to the young woman. “From this day forth you will go to Prince Peridaen’s steward when you need more. I have other things to do. Now go.” The baroness turned her back, signaling the end of the interview.
The young woman dropped another courtesy to that uncaring back and hurried off, the flask clenched in one hand, the pouch of coins in the other.
The whole way back the eyes watched her, digging into her very soul.
Her “cave,” her apprentices called it. Not fitting for the dignity of the castle’s Healer. But Tasha felt comfortable in the odd little room she used for a study. No one alive now knew why it had been built the way it was. But Tasha had fallen in love with it when she’d first come to the castle. Filled with shelf after shelf of books, jars of medicinal herbs, and soothing oils, the beehive-shaped room had been her refuge.
These days it felt like her prison.
The oil lamp guttered, threatening to go out. Chin resting in the palm of one hand, Healer Tasha sighed and lit a sliver of wood from the sputtering flame. Moving slowly, she held the tiny fire to the wick of another, full oil lamp and went back to her books. There were three of them spread out on the desk before her—and none of them were any cursed help in figuring out what was wrong with Rann. Certain of his symptoms matched those of some of the il
lnesses described—yet others didn’t. The treatments prescribed for those illnesses did nothing—or else made Rann sicker.
She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, stifling a yawn. As much as she hated to give up and admit tonight’s search was as fruitless as all the others, she knew she was getting stupid with exhaustion. She’d have to sleep soon; a fine thing it would be if she missed the cure because she was too tired to recognize it.
If only the scribe who’d copied these books hadn’t had such a crabbed hand. Perhaps he’d been trying to skimp on parchment and ink, the stingy wretch. She hadn’t the energy to curse him. Not tonight.
She’d close her eyes briefly, then read until the wick burned down a little. Just a little while …
A soft knock at the open door made her jump. Her head snapped up. Hang it all! She’d fallen asleep. Tasha shook her head, trying to clear her wits.
“Yes?” she said, peering shortsightedly at the door. Please-not an emergency. Not tonight. I haven’t the strength.
Someone loomed in the darkness just beyond the doorway—someone large. Tasha racked her memory to remember who in the castle was that tall. Then the man detached himself from the shadows; for a moment she didn’t recognize him without the ceremonial garb. When she did, she stared at him, speechless.
Her wits returned. She scrambled to rise. “Your—Your Grace!” she stammered. Apprehension seized her. “Oh, gods—you’re not ill, are you?”
Linden Rathan waved her back to her seat. He made the warding gesture with his other hand. “I’m quite well, thank you. Healer—” He looked an inquiry at her.
Her tongue tried to trip over itself, but she got her name out. “Tasha.”
He nodded. “Healer Tasha, this visit is an informal one, so please sit again. You look—if you don’t mind my saying it—exhausted.”
Tasha sank down gratefully on her chair. She passed a hand over her face; her gaze dropped automatically to the books before her.
The Dragonlord asked gently, “Seeking answers for Rann?”
She nodded.
He pulled the only other chair from its place against the wall and set it backwards before her desk. He straddled it, arms crossed along the top, his long legs stuck out to either side. “What’s wrong with the child?”
Tasha bit her tongue to keep from snapping. Rann’s uncles and half the damned castle asked her that same question ten times a day. And she had no more of an answer for this Dragonlord than she did for them.
But at least there was no angry accusation in his voice, just honest curiosity—and a hint of sadness. She remembered Rann telling her how kind the big Dragonlord had been to him.
He cares. The revelation surprised her. She’d always thought of Dragonlords as remote, unfeeling. To find that they were prey to the same emotions as any truehuman moved her. In token of that, she spared him the flood of her frustration, saying only, “I don’t know,” tensely, bitterly.
Linden Rathan seemed to ponder her words. He looked down at his hands, one thumb rubbing along the knuckles of the other hand. The lamplight glinted in his fair hair. At last he asked, “Have you ever seen anything like it before?”
Tasha shrugged. “Yes—and no. His symptoms are puzzling; sometimes they seem to indicate one thing, then another. I’m told one of his grandmothers was sickly all her life. Perhaps Rann just takes after her. For no matter what I try—whether it’s medicines and tonics, or a Healing—it doesn’t help. Sometimes a Healing even makes him worse.”
She shook back her sleeves. Bared to the oil lamp’s feeble glow, the tattoos of ivy vines encircling her forearms looked black. She raised her arms for his inspection.
“Not even a Master Healer can cure everything,” said Tasha. “And as you can see, I’m only of the Fifth Rank. Not good enough for poor Rann, I’m afraid.” The admission burned like bile in her mouth.
Shaking his head, Linden Rathan said, “Don’t blame yourself, Healer. For that matter, there are illnesses that Dragonlords—or even truedragons—can’t cure with their Healing fire. Only the gods can cure everything.”
Tasha’s despair lifted from her like mist before the rising sun. How could she have forgotten? “Dragonlord, would you be willing—Ah, sweet gods, Your Grace, you must try!” she cried.
“Changing and then using my Healing fire? It might not help him, you know—it might even be dangerous for him.”
She wanted to scream. It was a chance—he had to try! He had to, damn it! She would—his last words filtered into her mind. She reined in her emotions. “What do you mean it might be dangerous?”
His dark grey eyes met hers. “Didn’t you just tell me that sometimes a Healing made him worse? How much worse? And if the power of the Healing increased, would it make him that much sicker? I could even kill him.”
Gods help her, the man was right. And Rann’s condition was not desperate enough to warrant that kind of risk-taking. Not yet, anyway. “You’re right, my lord.”
For a moment he looked as if his thoughts were far away; then the corner of Linden Rathan’s mouth crooked up in a wry half-smile. “Your pardon. I was remembering something a friend of mine said just before I left Dragonskeep. This is silly, I know, but … Could Rann’s illness be magical in nature?”
Whatever Tasha had been expecting, it wasn’t this. For a moment she just stared, openmouthed, at the Dragonlord. “You—you’re not jesting, are you?”
“Jesting? No. Nor do I take the idea seriously. But it popped into my mind, so …” He shrugged.
Tasha smiled. It was a poor excuse for one—she knew that—but it was the best she could do. “Was there magic involved, Your Grace, I think I would have felt it during the few Healings I’ve dared. No, I don’t think we can blame this on sorcery—no matter how much ill-luck has dogged Rann’s family.”
At his questioning look Tasha said, “Rann’s father died two years ago while hunting deer. The gods only know where the boar had been hiding in the woods; the villagers in that area had had no idea there was even one about, let alone one that size. Thank the gods no one else has fallen victim to it since. Prince Vanos‘s—Rann’s elder brother’s—horse went lame. He dismounted to look for a stone in its hoof; his father, the prince consort, stayed with him, letting the rest of the hunt go by.
“Vanos told me later that he never saw the boar until it knocked him down and gored him. His father flung himself upon the beast, armed with only his dagger. The boar escaped; the prince consort bled to death. I don’t think Vanos ever forgave himself that his father died in his stead. He never fully recovered from his wounds. When the winter sickness came that year—and it was bad here in Cassori—he fell an easy victim to it.”
Tasha stared into the air beyond the Dragonlord’s shoulder. She’d failed Vanos, just as she was now failing his young brother. A memory of Vanos’s grey, haggard face danced before her mind’s eye, taunting her with her inadequacy. She shook her head to banish it and made to close the book in front of her.
Gods—when had she clenched her hands like that? Her nails had dug deep half-moons into her palms. She eased her fingers open, wincing at the cramped muscles, and closed the book.
“Did the storm come up suddenly the day the pleasure barge sank?”
The question came out of nowhere. Tasha jumped. Lost in her memories, she’d forgotten she wasn’t alone.
Puzzled at the turn the conversation had taken, Tasha blinked stupidly at Linden Rathan for a moment before answering. “What? Oh—no, it had been threatening all day. Still, it wasn’t a bad one, Your Grace. That’s why it was such a shock, you see; the barge had weathered worse.” At the memory an icy chill settled in Tasha’s stomach like a stone. Damn him for making her remember that time as well. She stared at the Dragonlord, willing him to say more.
He didn’t. Not for a long while. Then he said, half to himself, “I should have taken that blasted wager after all.”
When she said, “Pardon?” he laughed a little and said, “Just think
ing aloud, Healer.”
He stood up and returned the chair to its proper place. “Thank you for taking the time to explain all this to me. I hope you’ll find the answer soon, for Rann’s sake and your own peace of mind. Now I’ll leave you to get some rest.” He turned and walked to the door.
Tasha heard the hint of command in the deep voice, subtle though it was. She nodded. He raised a hand in farewell. A moment later he was gone, lost in the shadows once more.
Tasha started. Gods, how could such a big man move so quietly and disappear so easily? It was like something out of a bard’s tale—a cloak of invisibility or some such thing.
The thought made her remember what he’d said about magic. A shiver danced down her spine. Drat him; she’d likely have nightmares now over that bit of moonshine.
But thank the gods that’s all it was: pure moonshine. She yawned. The Dragonlord was right; it was time for some sleep. Wearily she blew out the lamp.
As he retraced his route through the halls of the palace, Linden turned a corner and nearly ran into Duke Beren hurrying the other way. The duke had the look of a man on some secret errand.
Beren swore in surprise and jumped back. Linden saw him realize who the other late-night wanderer was and the glare that seemed reserved for Dragonlords was back in Beren’s eyes. Why does he hate us so? Linden wondered.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” the duke demanded.
Linden raised his eyebrows at Beren’s rudeness, though all he said was, “I wanted to talk with your Healer.”
“Tasha? Why?” The questions snapped out like the cracking of a whip.
Linden reined in his temper. “I asked her about Rann.” Then, prompted by some perverse impulse, he said, “I asked her if Rann’s illness might be magical in nature.”
A strange look passed over Beren’s face. Fear?
“What did she say?”
“That it isn’t.”
The Last Dragonlord Page 7
