Relief at that—but relief mixed with something else. As if—
Beren pushed past. “I must leave now. I’m … I’m tired.”
Linden let him go, wondering.
Nine
She waited in the solar, rubbing her temples with her fingers in slow, even circles, trying to will away the tension that was her constant companion these days. It was late, the room was stuffy with heat the tiles had soaked up during the day, her head ached, and she wanted nothing more than to go to bed. She hoped he would get here soon. At least she’d managed to get here before him; she’d worried about that. He would have fretted, otherwise.
Thank the gods the solar was deserted. Where once she had enjoyed the crowds of ladies that filled the solar during the day, chattering like sparrows over their embroidery, she’d avoided as many people as she could since Queen Desia died.
The door opened. “Beryl?” a soft voice called.
“In here, my lord,” she replied.
She could make out a figure moving through the shadows. Slowly it made its way through the gloom and into the yellow pool of light cast by the oil lamp next to her.
Duke Beren sat on the bench next to her. “Gods help me—I just ran into Linden Rathan. I’ll tell you about it when I stop shaking. How was Rann when you left him?”
Linden Rathan? She could understand Beren’s reaction; she’d been terrified during her own encounter with the big Dragonlord. But what was Linden Rathan doing in the palace at this hour?
Beryl swallowed her questions; Beren would tell her as soon as he was ready and not one moment before. “Well enough, though he still looked tired and pale from this morning. I left when Alinya came to bid him good night. I think he was still upset by some of the things said at the council meeting.”
“I know, but it couldn’t be helped.” Beren smacked one big, meaty fist into the palm of the other hand. “Damn that Dragonlord! I want Rann under your eyes or mine as much as possible.”
She patted Beren’s hand. His fingers curled around hers for a moment. “At least I managed to get there before Gevianna. And Beren, for whatever comfort it might give you, I do think the Dragonlord only did it out of concern for Rann. The boy was clinging to him like a drowning man to a rope.”
He pulled his hand free and hunched over, elbows on knees, face buried in his hands, fingers wrenching at his red hair. “No doubt you’re right, sweetheart, but still! If only that old idiot Corvy hadn’t insisted on having Dragonlords mediate this and gotten the majority of the council to agree. I’m certain I could have swayed enough of them to my side. Damn the Dragonlords!”
Beren turned his head enough to look at her. Worry lines that hadn’t been there a few months before creased the skin around his eyes and of his forehead and threads of grey shone at his temples.
Her heart went out to him. He was a country lord, happiest in the saddle after a deer or looking over his own fields. Beren was not meant for this kind of intrigue. She wished for the words that would comfort the fear she saw in his eyes. If she could only talk some sense into him. If only she dared tell him …
“Dearest,” she began, “you’ve no proof against Peridaen. Nothing at all.”
Beren looked stubborn. “The queen saw fit to … suggest … he travel.”
“At your brother’s instigation. You know very well she could never say no to Dax. Even so, she didn’t exile Peridaen as he asked her to. She was even considering calling Peridaen back. Have you ever considered that all this was no more than your brother’s jealousy of the influence her brother had?”
Beren snorted. “My brother was neither jealous nor a fool. He knew something about Peridaen. What, I don’t know. But that’s why he did what he did. I need to find out what Dax knew.” He drew a long breath. “You say I have no proof against Peridaen. And that’s true. I just wonder what proof he has against me—and how did he get it? And tomorrow the council will call for—oh, gods.
“Beryl,” he said, his voice shaking, “what if the Dragonlords find out?”
As the council made ready to enter the chamber the next day, Kief said to Duke Beren, “My lord, I understand that you have the warrant of regency in your possession. Would you please send for it?”
Beren’s face paled, but he said steadily enough, “Very well, Dragonlord.” He beckoned to a castle servant. Yet when the man answered his gesture, Beren said nothing for a long moment.
What’s wrong with Beren? Linden said to the others.
I don’t know, Kief replied. Surely he expected this once we were past the first round of discussions.
Linden was about to ask the man if all was well when Beren said, “Go to my chambers and tell my steward to bring the warrant to the Council Chamber.”
“At once, my lord Duke.”
Beren watched the man set off on his errand; for a moment Linden thought Beren would call him back. Then, grimacing like one about to face the hangman, Beren turned and stalked into the Council Chamber.
What ails the man? Linden wondered, remembering Beren’s odd behavior and furtive air last night. He glanced at the others.
Kief shrugged and raised his eyebrows as if to say “We’ll soon find out,” and followed Beren.
They found out all too soon. The council had just begun debating various points when the door burst open. A man Linden didn’t recognize stood framed in the doorway for a moment. He wore the heavy silver chain of a steward, though, so Linden could guess. The man’s face was deathly pale. He held out empty hands to the duke.
Beren stood. “Vatrinn—what is the meaning of this? Where’s the warrant?”
The steward’s mouth worked, but at first no sound came out. Then, “My lord Duke—it’s gone!”
Had the kitchen cat settled itself upon the council’s table and lectured them on the differences between the nine hells of Yerrin belief and the three that Cassorin priests held to, the council members could not have looked more surprised. A stunned silence fell over the room.
Duke Beren was the first to find his voice. He confronted Peridaen. “You!” he bellowed. “What did you do with the warrant?”
Peridaen shook his head, sending his carefully arranged curls flying, all elegance forgotten. His jaw hung open like a country yokel seeing a two-headed calf at a fair. “Beren—I swear to you, I’ve no idea where it is!”
Chaos erupted in the chamber.
Either he’s telling the truth, Tarlna said, or he’s the most convincing liar I’ve ever seen!
The same with Beren, Kief added. That was honest surprise; I’m certain of it.
Their uneasiness came through the mindlink. Linden regretted adding to it, but it had to be done. None of them did; I’d take oath on it. Gifnu’s hells, I’d even make a wager with Lleld, I’m that certain.
The three Dragonlords exchanged puzzled glances.
Could it be some sort of honest mistake? Linden said. Not that he believed it for a moment. But if none here were responsible, then who?
You mean a servant misplaced it? said Tarlna with a touch of derision.
Linden shrugged. It might be the safest course.
You’re right. I fear whoever did this, did it with the intent of fomenting civil war. Very well, then—we won’t play their game. We’ll treat this as some sort of mistake. The servant gambit will be useful; no one will believe it, of course. But we’ll force them to accept it or openly rebel against us, then continue as if nothing’s amiss, Kief said. With a mental sigh, he added, This will make our task much harder—and longer.
The slender Dragonlord stood up and called the excited nobles to order. While Kief did so, Linden continued to watch for clues in the faces around them, and saw none.
So who did this? And why? And what was next?
Ten
Linden guided his horse through the gates, acknowledging the salutes of the startled guards. Luckily there seemed to be few others who recognized him without the ceremonial regalia. He was just another of the many Yerrins who had business in Casna at any g
iven time.
A moment later he was outside of the city. He thanked the gods that no council had been set for this day. Casna stifled him; he needed to break free.
This early in the morning carts and wagons still crowded the dusty road as they made their deliveries to the marketplace. He wove a way between them, dodging a cart loaded with early beets on one side, the next moment skittering out of the way of a wain laden with tanned hides. All around him the carters cursed one another and anyone else unfortunate enough to be caught in the crush. As he cut in front of one lumbering wagon he heard a flood of invective cut off in mid-tirade. By the strangled yelp that ended the impressive display, Linden guessed the driver had just realized who the “Yerrin son-of-a-bitch!” was.
He looked back, grinned, and saluted. That driver could have held her own amongst Bram and Rani’s mercenaries without trouble.
The heavy wheels and plodding hooves churned up the pale dust of the road. Because the air was so still and heavy, the dust hung in it like a fog. It tickled his nose, gritted in his eyes and clung to his clothes, hair, and skin. The gelding snorted, tossing its head in displeasure.
After two or three miles the press eased. Linden rode aimlessly along the road. The people he passed seemed to take him for one of their own. He had no particular destination in mind; he just wanted to ride and think. Maybe then he could make sense of everything.
There were undercurrents in the council meetings that he couldn’t put a finger on. So vague was the feeling, he was ready to dismiss his premonitions as moonshine, but something wouldn’t let him do it. But neither would that “something” tell him what was wrong. It merely chafed at him.
He was not happy. And this idiot horse wasn’t helping. Every time his attention wandered, so did it—straight for the nearest patch of grass. Cursing, he pulled its head up. Ill-mannered beast. He couldn’t ignore it for a moment the way he could with Shan.
Hardly fair to compare the poor beast to a Llysanyin like Shan. It’s one of the few mounts in the city capable of carrying someone your size, he scolded himself. You shouldn’t complain.
But he still missed Shan. If the stallion were here, he’d be telling Shan his problems. Shan couldn’t answer, of course, but he nodded in all the right places. And somehow, talking to Shan helped Linden get things sorted out. Linden wondered just how much the stallion did understand. Ah, well. He’d just have to make do.
A half mile or so ahead a smaller track met the main road. It went east, which meant he’d be riding with the sun in his eyes, but there was no one on it for the distance that he could see.
Moved by a sudden urge to explore, Linden turned his horse onto the new road when he reached it. That it was deserted appealed to him; he wanted to get away from any reminders of the overwhelming press of humanity that was Casna. Kief would likely blister his ears for him, going off without bodyguards or even his greatsword, Tsan Rhilin. But the company of even one or two silent guards would have been unbearable that morning and the greatsword was too noticeable.
Still, the thought of Kief’s—and Tarlna’s, too, no doubt—fussing was enough to blacken Linden’s mood. He urged the gelding into a canter.
To his surprise, the rangy, pied gelding’s canter was a pleasure to ride. The long, easy stride flowed along the road. It certainly made up for the stiffness of the gelding’s trot and its slouching walk. A pity he couldn’t canter through the city streets.
The sun rose higher in the sky. After a time, Linden slowed the reluctant gelding as the road veered south. He smelled the tang of salt air and guessed he was nearing the coast.
He held the gelding to a ground-eating trot. While the sun no longer shone into his eyes, it was now high enough to be uncomfortably warm. The road turned due east again. Linden debated whether to follow it or strike off to the north and cross the wide swath of fields and meadows to the woods he’d seen from the air the day they’d arrived in Casna.
He was certain the road would run along the sea cliffs at some point farther on; perhaps there was a beach he could climb down to. The idea of swimming decided him.
He rode on. And soon wished he’d thought to bring food and wine with him. Or even a flask of water. The sun and salt air made him thirsty.
The road passed within a quarter mile of a circle of standing stones on a headland that jutted out into the water like the prow of a ship. He turned off the road to investigate them. They sat peacefully in the sun, one trilithon with nine single stones in attendance, their shadows tucked around their feet with the nooning. Beyond them sparkled the sea.
Linden wondered who had raised them, and why. There was such an aura of eternity about the stones that he felt young in comparison. He tied the gelding’s reins to a scrubby, wind-dwarfed pine, loosened the saddle girth, and went among them.
The stones were easily twice his height. He paused by the trilithon in the center and rested a hand on one of the uprights. The stone was cool to his touch. But from deep inside it came a faint pulsation that spoke to him of magic. It was like the hum of the lowest string of a harp—yet no harp could resonate so deep. He felt it, faint and clear, in his bones, a magic born of the earth as his own was.
This magic slept deeply inside the grey stone. Even so it comforted him somehow. He leaned his forehead against the cool, lichened roughness, letting all his frustrations at the council and his worries for Rann come to the surface of his mind. He imagined they drained away into the stone.
For a moment he thought the pulse within the upright changed. He pressed both hands to the stone, seeking with the magic that bound his soul and concentrated. No; no, there was no difference—he thought.
He pushed away from the stone, continued through the circle to the cliff. There he saw that while there was a rough path to the beach below, it was hellishly steep; line it with sword blades and it could be the path Gifnu, lord of the nine hells, sentenced kinslayers to climb, bearing their victims on their backs.
No, climbing back up that would undo whatever good a swim did him. Nor could he Change here; there wasn’t enough room. Besides, there was no water or shade for the horse. He’d have to wait.
“Bah,” he said as he went back to fetch the gelding.
It was the glint of reflected sunlight among the trees that alerted him. A truehuman would have never seen it. Linden recognized it at once: sunlight sparkling on the rushing waters of a stream. He turned the gelding toward the promise of shade and water.
As he rode, Linden studied the land before him. The forest came close to the road here; before he’d seen it only as a dark line far in the distance. His unnaturally sharp vision confirmed that there was grass aplenty growing amid the trees at the edge of the forest. He could hobble the gelding and leave it here with a clear conscience.
Then he’d be off to find the perfect spot to swim.
He launched himself from the sea cliff, his wings sweeping down and out in short, powerful strokes.
This was freedom! He spiraled up into the sun, exulting in the feel of the sun on his scales, the wind sliding over his wings, the sheer power of his dragon body. When he had enough height, Linden tucked his wings close to his body and rolled just for the fun of it.
He came out of the roll and set off along the coastline, humming one of Otter’s tunes in his head.
He’d gone a fair distance when a beach below caught his eye. He hovered a moment, struck by the look of it.
It was a wonderful place for a child to play, with odd-shaped rocks to climb over and hide among. Rann, he thought, would like it. He’d have to remember this place, though what good it would do the boy, Linden didn’t know. He couldn’t carry the prince here in dragon-form and it was too far for the child to ride.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to look at it a bit closer, just in case … .
He rumbled happily deep in his chest. There, right below him, the rocks formed a pool perfect for soaking. He landed and Changed. A moment later he was stripping off his clothes.
He sig
hed happily as he slid into the water.
Time to ride back to Casna. Not, he reflected as he dressed once more, that he needed to take the direct route back. No sense in wasting the benefits of the swim by riding along a hot, dusty road in the sun. He’d go back by way of the woods. He had no fear of losing his way. By long habit, he’d scanned much of the countryside surrounding Casna as they’d flown in and had a fair idea of the way he planned to take.
Gods, what a scout he would have been if he could have done that when he was with Bram and Rani. Of course, if he could have, he wouldn’t have been fighting alongside them. He would have been duty-bound to find a peaceful settlement, he mused as he let himself flow into Change. Somehow he didn’t regret not Changing earlier in life.
With a powerful spring, he leaped into the air once more and flew back along the coast.
After a time he recognized the cliff that he’d jumped from earlier. His holiday was nearly over. He landed on the edge of the cliff and walked back to the woods.
The gelding, dozing in the shade of the trees, was annoyed at being asked to work again. It snapped halfheartedly at Linden as he laid the saddle on its back once more.
“Give over, gooserump,” Linden grunted as he tugged on the girth, “and give me one more notch. Now for your bridle.” He stowed the hobbles in the saddlebags once more, then swung into the saddle and set off through the trees.
Linden continued west through the woods. He’d been riding for three candlemarks or so now, enjoying himself; the forest here was oak and maple, ash and beech and birch. It had a friendly feel to it. As he entered a large clearing, he heard laughing voices close by. He kept silent and rode on.
He wished he didn’t have to return to the city. Still, he’d have to go back sometime—and explain to Kief why he’d ridden off alone.
Not that I truly need a bodyguard—
On the very heels of the thought, the branches behind him crackled as someone rode out of the forest into the clearing. And he, gods curse it, had left Tsan Rhilin behind.
The Last Dragonlord Page 8
