The Last Dragonlord

by Joanne Bertin

  “No,” Kief said.

  “Nor I. What was it?” Linden asked.

  “Frustration. Frustration and—,” Tarlna paused. She continued in a thoughtful voice, “Hate.”

  Kief whistled. “I wish I had seen that. Do you think he’s one of those who would have Dragonlords stay out of truehuman affairs?”

  Tarlna considered. “Perhaps.”

  Linden raised an eyebrow. “I wonder if there are many of that ilk in Cassori?”

  “I wouldn’t worry, Linden. That sort are a nuisance, but have hardly been a serious threat for centuries,” Kief said. “Not since Ankarlyn’s death and the destruction of the Fraternity of Blood.” He snorted. “Our blood, that is. But aside from a few ineffective, half-mad misfits calling themselves by that name now and again, no one has ever resurrected it.”

  “They’d need another mage the equal of Ankarlyn to make it work,” Tarlna observed. “And I’ve not heard of any such.”

  “Nor have I,” said Kief. “Besides, if there was some plot against us here in Cassori, surely something would have happened. We’ve been here for so long, with all of us going out and about so much, from this revel to that dinner and everywhere in between, that if someone were going to strike at us, they would have done it by now.”

  “True. I think this wrangle is nothing more than it seems,” said Tarlna.

  They passed through an archway covered with honeysuckle. Ahead was the gazebo; beyond it flowed the river. Moonlight made a path across the water.

  Linden’s gaze followed it to the docks. He thought he recognized the Sea Mist. His heart jumped. Silly, that; the dockhands would have all gone home by now. He hoped she wasn’t too angry at the way he’d left without a word. He hadn’t wanted to get caught in a tangle of half-truths. Still, the sight of the cog brought back the feel of his lady’s shoulder touching his as they worked.

  His lady. He savored the memory of holding her.

  Tarlna’s crisp voice cut through the night. “Linden—you’re the one who wanted to come here. So why are you standing staring across the river? There’s nothing there. And that’s a remarkably silly smile, I’ll have you know.”

  Linden jumped and felt his face grow hot. He mumbled, “Sorry,” as he climbed the steps. A tiny ball of scarlet coldfire lit the interior. “Ah—more wine, anyone?”

  The others held out their goblets. Linden poured wine for them, then for himself. They sat down.

  He wondered how to begin. He hadn’t felt this unsure in centuries, like a stripling boy in love for the first time. He also felt very foolish.

  “Out with it, Linden. What’s so important that we had to come out here? Why not use mindspeech if you didn’t want any servants overhearing?” Kief said.

  “I … ah, I—”

  Blast it all; the others were going to think him an ass. Why hadn’t he used mindspeech?

  For no other reason than he didn’t want to share these feelings. And share them he would, with mindspeech, whether he wanted to or not. They were too strong to keep back.

  Tarlna leaned forward, her eyes intent, studying him for many heartbeats. When she spoke, her voice was the gentlest he’d ever heard it.

  “It’s something very important, isn’t it, Linden? Something not for sharing with everybody. I felt your excitement earlier. Tell us when you’re ready.”

  He nodded. Looking out at the river again, he said, “What did it feel like when you two met?”

  “Ahh,” Kief said. There was a wealth of happiness in that exhalation.

  Linden turned back to see Kief and Tarlna smiling at each other, lost in the past. He felt the all-too-familiar pang of jealousy and sadness at being with a soultwinned couple.

  Kief said, “We … fitted together somehow. I can’t explain it any better than that. Just that it was right, our being together.”

  Linden forgot his pain. His voice tight with excitement, he said, “I think I met my soultwin today.”

  There; he’d finally said it, admitted it even to himself. His heart jumped again. His soultwin; to never be alone anymore—gods, it was hard to believe.

  He continued, “I’m certain of it. It felt like that: right, somehow. The sense of fitting together.” He closed his eyes, shaking. An aching hunger filled him.

  A hand gripped his shoulder. He opened his eyes to find Kief kneeling on one knee before him; the older Dragonlord’s face was full of concern.

  “Linden—listen to me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, but whoever she is, she can’t be. The truedragons have said nothing of a new Dragonlord. And they’re always the first to feel the souls merge. Unless—oh, gods; please no.” Kief’s voice shook. “Unless it’s like—”

  Linden knew what Kief was thinking; the other Dragonlord’s stricken face betrayed him. A sudden chill took Linden and his stomach twisted. He hadn’t even thought about that. “You mean like Sahleen, don’t you—twinned to a truehuman?”

  He remembered the tale—and its tragic ending—heard by many a winter’s fire in Dragonskeep. His mind’s eye saw the unfortunate Sahleen dangling from a tree in the gardens.

  Not realizing he spoke aloud, he whispered, “What use living when your soul is gone from you? Such a short time truehumans live.” He felt cold despite the heat.

  “Has she a Marking?” Tarlna’s voice, hard and practical, shattered his fears.

  He grasped at her words like a drowning man at a rope. “Yes! Her eyes. They’re two different colors: one’s blue, the other green. Even though she said others in her family have them, that doesn’t mean they can’t be a Marking for her. I’m not the only person—truehuman or Dragonlord—with a birthmark like this.” He touched his eyelid. “Even Sherrine has one like it on her back. And didn’t you once tell me that six-fingered hands ran in your family, Kief?”

  “Um, yes,” Kief said, still kneeling on the floor. “But the truedragons—”

  Tarlna exploded, “Oh, Kief! Forget the truedragons! Somehow they didn’t sense her birth.”

  She jumped up and bent over her soultwin. “Don’t you see what’s happened? For the first time, soultwins have met before they’ve both Changed!”

  Kief fell back, landing with a thump. He stared up at Tarlna. “Gods help us, love—you may be right.”

  “Of course I’m right,” Tarlna said. “And close your mouth; you look like a fish. The thing we need to think about is: what do we do about this?”

  Puzzled, Linden said, “What do you mean? She’s my soultwin. I’ll tell her, court her, and—”

  “No!” Kief said. “That’s exactly what you mustn’t do—not until we know more about her.” He scrambled up, dusting himself off.

  Black rage filled Linden, a rage so powerful it frightened him. Before he knew what he did, he sprang at Kief, hands reaching for the smaller Dragonlord’s throat. At the last moment he realized what was happening to him.

  He was in the grip of Rathan’s draconic rage. Shaking, he took control of himself once more. He forced his hands to his sides.

  Kief met his eyes unflinching. “Force him back, Linden,” he said softly. “Rathan is dangerous to you right now. To you—and your lady.”

  “Why?” Linden said. His voice was harsh with pain. “Why should I wait any longer? I’ve waited more than six centuries to be complete, to find the person with the other halves of my souls—far longer than any other Dragonlord has had to wait without hope. And you dare tell me I have to wait longer? Why?”

  “Think, you fool! She hasn’t Changed yet! Think what that could mean—you know what’s happened from time to time to full Dragonlords.”

  As Kief’s meaning became clear, Linden fell back a step. Despite the warmth, his skin was suddenly clammy and cold. “Oh, gods. I—I understand. I’ve heard the stories, but I’d forgotten.”

  “I remember,” Kief said grimly, “because it happened during my first century as a Dragonlord. It’s not something I ever want to see happen again. You may be a pigheaded pain in the ass sometimes, Linden, but I
’d hate to lose you. Especially that way.”

  “Go sit down,” Tarlna ordered. “You look as if you’re going to faint or vomit. I’d rather you did neither. So sit down and have some more wine.”

  Linden obeyed. Tarlna might well be right; he felt shaky enough for either one. She steadied his hands as he drank.

  “Thank you,” he said. He closed his eyes for a few minutes, concentrating on the shape of the goblet in his hands. Rustling sounds told him the others had also sat down once more. When he could breathe evenly again, he looked at them.

  “Thank you both. While I realize there’s a danger to us, I can’t not see her. Can you understand that?” he pleaded. If Kief invoked the Lady’s name and forbade him to find his dockhand …

  Kief sighed. “Yes, we understand. It would be cruel, having her so near and not being able to even talk to her. But hold Rathan in check, Linden; until your lady goes through First Change he’s more of a danger to you than a dozen dark mages. And what’s your lady’s name, anyway?”

  Linden looked down at the floor, feeling foolish. “I don’t know. I never had a chance to ask her. We were working too hard.”

  “Drink some more wine; you’re still pale,” Tarlna said. She added suspiciously, “Working?”

  He decided it might be best not to elaborate.

  Kief said, “This will be painful for you, Linden—very painful. Every instinct you have, every fiber of your body, will drive you. It’s an imperative for us to join with our soultwins. I don’t envy you one bit. Gods—I wish we could help somehow.”

  “You have,” Linden said, “by telling me this. Just as Lleld did when she told me about—” He cleared his throat. Even after so long it was difficult to talk about. “About Bryony, after I had gone through First Change.”

  “Ah,” Tarlna said, pouring more wine into his goblet. “This Bryony—I think I heard you mention her once. Was she the wife who left you?”

  Linden drank off the rest of the wine in one gulp. “Yes.”

  Tarlna shook her head. “She must have been livid when she found out later you were a Dragonlord.” Wicked laughter bubbled under the words.

  “Oh, gods—yes. It was three years later and she had married someone else, so she had no claim on me.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, lost in the past.

  “So how did you meet your unnamed lady today?” Tarlna said briskly.

  Linden couldn’t help laughing. Trust Tarlna not to give up. And if she disapproved of playing with the servants’ children, what would she say to this?

  “I went down to see the ship Otter came in on. She thought I was a dockhand—she heads a crew of them, you see. She told me to get my ass over there and earn my pay.” Linden chuckled. “So I helped unload the ship as long as I could.”

  Tarlna shut her eyes. She looked pained. “Linden—there is no hope for you.”

  Kief laughed. “So that’s why you were late.” Then he sobered and said, “Don’t tell her, Linden, until you know her better. If she’s headstrong, she may try to force an early Change. That would be disastrous. On the other hand, it may make it easier for both of you if she understands what’s happening and is patient enough to let things unfold as they should. She’ll want you as much as you want her, I suspect.”

  “I’ll ask Otter if he’ll help me find her. I know, I know,” Linden said, forestalling the other’s objections, “he’s not a Dragonlord and this is Dragonlord business. But I need him to search for me. A Dragonlord looking for a dockhand would set too many tongues wagging. And remember—he’s a bard. He knows how to keep his mouth shut when needed.”

  He fell silent. Gods; I hope I can hold back. No, not “hope;” I must hold back. I wish I could talk to Otter right now.

  He refused to think of what he’d truly rather be doing. This was going to be hard enough without torturing himself.

  But when he reached out with his mind, he found that Otter was deep in sleep. This time he’d not wake the bard up; time enough to talk in the morning.

  He sighed. Six centuries. Six long, lonely centuries—and now this. A memory drifted into his mind. Once more he heard Rani say, “Nothing worth having comes easy, you know.”

  He never noticed when Kief and Tarlna left him alone with his thoughts, the river, and the warm night.

  The whitewashed walls of the bedroom glowed a warm ivory in the circle of light cast by the single rushlight. Shadows filled the corners that the tiny flame couldn’t penetrate.

  Maylin sat with her legs hanging off the side of the bed as she leaned against a bedpost at the foot of it. Kella, asleep long before Maurynna had arrived, lay curled up in the other bed.

  Now Maurynna sat on a pallet made up on the floor between the beds. The tall girl sat with her legs folded to one side, nightgown rucked up to midthigh, displaying long, slender legs. She had pulled her long black hair over one shoulder to pool in her lap. The red-gold of her captain’s bracelets winked in the rushlight as she brushed her damp hair.

  Stroke, stroke, stroke. Maylin blinked, almost hypnotized by the slow, rhythmic motion. The ropes supporting the mattress creaked as she shifted to better study her cousin.

  Half-lowered eyelids concealed the odd-colored eyes so vivid in the tanned, heart-shaped face. Maylin envied her cousin her long aristocratic nose—so different from Maylin’s own snubby one—even if it wasn’t quite straight, a legacy of being knocked to the deck by a loose boom.

  As Maurynna switched hands, her nightgown of fine lawn slipped from her shoulder. The sharp line between the sun-darkened neck and the lighter, honey-toned skin of her shoulders was startling. Maurynna’s lips curled in a dreamy smile.

  It was the smile that worried Maylin. Just as it had worried her all during Maurynna’s bare-bones recital of the docking and unloading of her ship as the taller girl ate the cold supper hastily prepared for her.

  Something’s not right here, Maylin thought. That dockhand did an honest day’s work—why should he run off before he could be paid? Perhaps he’s not a dockhand—but then, why unload Maurynna’s ship? And I don’t like what she didn’t say about him. That’s not like Rynna. No funny descriptions. Not a bit about what he looked like—just that he was a big man and strong—or anything else about him save that they worked side by side all day. Just that same dreamy smile.

  Her mother had been too distracted to notice. Like every other merchant Maylin knew of, her mother was worried sick over what a prolonged regency debate—or, gods forbid, civil war—would do to trade.

  Maylin wondered what the bard would make of Rynna’s dreaminess; he seemed a clever fellow. She’d ask him tomorrow. Now it was time for a distraction—and she knew just the thing.

  “We’ve seen Linden Rathan,” she said a touch smugly, nodding at the sleeping Kella.

  The distant look vanished from Maurynna’s face. “What! How?”

  Maylin grinned. “Haven’t you heard? There are three Dragonlords in Casna because of the debate over the regency. The other two are Kief Shaeldar and Tarlna Aurianne.”

  Maurynna stared open-mouthed. “But, but—Oh! That wretch! Now I understand! I’ll keelhaul him,” she fumed, smacking her thigh with the brush. “He knew all along.”

  “Who?” Maylin asked, confused. “Linden Rathan?”

  “Otter. Never mind, I’ll explain later. Go on about the Dragonlords. Please.”

  Maurynna rearranged her long legs. To Maylin it looked a dreadfully uncomfortable position. But Rynna seemed happy with it, so Maylin plunged into her story.

  “We’ve seen him nearly every morning when Mother can spare us.”

  When she saw the naked longing in her cousin’s eyes, Maylin was sorry she had announced it so baldly. Good thing Mother had already told her she could bring Rynna to the Processional tomorrow.

  “Where—and how?” Maurynna begged.

  Maylin warmed to her tale. “The council meetings almost always start about three candlemarks or so before noon. The morning of the first meet
ing Mother let us go to the Processional. We got there barely in time. They were earlier than I thought they’d be.”

  Now she bounced with remembered excitement. The ropes of the bed complained. “Two kind guards let us stand right in front so that we had a perfect view.”

  Maurynna’s eyes went wide. A soft “Ohhhhh!” escaped from her.

  Maylin knelt on the edge of the bed, looking down on Maurynna on the pallet. “But this is the best part! I held Kella up so that she could see better and of course she waved. Linden Rathan waved back and called out ‘Hello, kitten’ to her! And he’s waved every morning that we’ve been there—we always stand near the same spot if we can—whether he’s alone or with the other Dragonlords. I really think he looks for us. He smiles whenever he sees us.”

  The brush fell to lie in Maurynna’s lap. Her fingers caressed the handle carved in the shape of a dragon as her eyes closed. “Oh, gods.”

  To Maylin, the barely heard words sounded like a plea. “Although Mother needs us tomorrow, she said we could bring you to the Processional. I should have let Kella tell you this—it’s really her story—but I couldn’t wait. Just act surprised when she tells you.”

  Maurynna nodded. Then the odd-colored eyes opened again; they sparkled. Maylin wondered why her cousin suddenly looked smug.

  She had her answer when Maurynna said with false diffidence, “Did I tell you that Otter’s offered to introduce me to Linden Rathan? They’re friends, you know.”

  “What!” Maylin’s squeal brought a sleepy grumble from Kella. Contrite, Maylin clapped a hand over her mouth.

  Maurynna nodded again. “But I don’t know when he will, and I’d like to have a chance to see Linden Rathan before that. Do you think we’ll see him?”

  “It’s likely. There should be another meeting tomorrow; they seem to meet for four or five days, then break for two or three, sometimes more—to let tempers cool, Mother thinks. The talk is that it would take very little for an open break in the council. And that would mean war. Only the Dragonlords have kept it from that.” Maylin shivered at the thought. Her gaze met her cousin’s, odd-colored like her own.