The Last Dragonlord

by Joanne Bertin

  Before Althume could speak, Peridaen took Anstella’s hands in his own, holding them until they stopped shaking. There was a wild look in the eyes that stared up at the prince.

  “We will not speak of this right now,” Peridaen said gently. “We’ll give you time to accustom yourself to this. And remember: this will help the Fraternity.”

  Althume watched tensely as long moments passed. Then, with a barely audible “For the Fraternity,” Anstella was once more the self-assured Baroness of Colrane. Only her breathing, rapid and light, and the deathlike pallor of her face betrayed her now. “It can’t be true,” she said, but her voice was quiet now, if still tight and brittle. “You’ll see. But let us speak of other things.” Once more she looked to Peridaen, her eyes beseeching him.

  “Kas,” the prince said softly.

  The mage nodded briskly. “If either of you can see a way to it, I need another delay in the council. A day or so if possible.”

  “Another?” Peridaen asked with a sigh, falling into the pretense that nothing was amiss. “Much more and the Dragonlords will notice something’s in the wind, Kas.”

  “It can’t be helped. The translation is difficult.”

  “What is it?” inquired Anstella, sounding almost like herself. She eased her hands from Peridaen’s.

  Althume smiled again. “A bit of this, a bit of that. And something that I hope is much more than an old tale.”

  Anstella tossed her head, once more the imperious baroness, and slid her arm through the prince’s. “Not very helpful. But I’ve had Duriac working on Chardel for the past tenday, Peridaen. He said last evening that it would take very little more to goad the old fool into attacking him.”

  The mage nodded as the other two turned to leave. “Good. Tell him to save it for one of the actual council meetings. Might as well get the full benefit of it.”

  Peridaen paused in the doorway. “You mentioned Ham’s brother before. Have you yet had any word from Pelnar from him?”

  Althume said, “Not yet. The last from him was that Nethuryn has gone into hiding. Don’t worry; Pol will hunt him the length and breadth of Pelnar if necessary. He’ll bring us what we need.”

  Peridaen nodded; he and Anstella continued on their way.

  As the door shut behind the two Cassorins, Althume locked his fingers together and stretched out his arms, cracking his knuckles with satisfaction. Yes, home to continue translating the only copy of Ankarlyn the Mage’s grimoire known to have survived destruction by the Dragonlords. And to ponder the problem of Anstella, Baroness of Colrane.

  Twenty-one

  Somewhere beyond the high garden fence a nightingale sang. The night was hot and sticky, the heavy air filled with the scent of the roses that grew along the fence. A thin crescent of waxing moon, horns up, rode low in the sky. It wasn’t enough for what Maurynna wanted.

  She leaned over the edge of the well. Blackness thicker than the night lay below her. According to some of Otter’s tales, if one caught the moon’s reflection in water, tossed silver to it and wished, that wish would come true.

  A coin lay in her hand. But try as she might, there was no angle from which Sister Moon’s pale face rippled in the unseen water below her.

  Ah, bother—it’s likely for the best. With my luck that only works for Yerrins—those were Yerrin legends, after all—and I’d have just thrown away good money. Still—

  She held out the coin. Before she could change her mind, she dropped it into the black opening. Long moments later she heard a soft, musical plink as it hit the water.

  “That was silly,” she said into the well.

  Behind her a deep voice asked, “What was?”

  Her heart jumped. She knew that voice. Before she could turn, strong arms caught her. She let him hold her, leaning back against her dockhand as he nuzzled her ear. Her hands came up to cover his.

  Her fingers touched the ends of the sleeves covering his wrists. To her surprise, they were dagged. She found that odd; it was a style long out of fashion. Curious, she explored further, nearly gasping at the thick, nubby fabric under her questing fingers.

  It was Neiranal mountain silk. Uncle Kesselandt had shown her a bolt of it once, the only bolt he’d ever been able to buy. Produced in the mountains that the Dragonlords ruled, they were tithed most of it. Whatever extra there was, was usually snatched up by royalty and high-ranking nobility.

  Her dockhand did well, then, despite being outcast. Or was he still in good standing with his clan and had been amusing himself by slumming? She hoped not; he’d likely think of her as no more than a distraction.

  He laughed softly, his mouth against her ear. “If you only knew how I’ve been looking for you this day.” His cheek rested against hers.

  A warm glow filled her at his words. “And I looked for you. But what are you doing here? If my aunt knew that one of the dockhands—”

  “Why should she object to another one?” He sounded puzzled. “You—”

  So he was a dockhand after all. The knowledge relieved her. She pushed the question of how he could afford Neiranal silk from her mind.

  She said, “I’m not one of the dock workers. I—I didn’t want to say anything when I realized that you thought I was. I was afraid that you’d …” She was too embarrassed to finish.

  “Shy off?” There was a wealth of understanding in his voice. “No, I wouldn’t have. But if you’re not a dockhand, then what are you? And what in blazes is your name, anyway?” His hand came up to stroke her cheek.

  “Maurynna Erdon. I’m the captain of that—”

  He shook with silent mirth, then laughed aloud. “Oh, gods! And here I was going to have Otter ask you to search for—yourself!” Still laughing softly, he nibbled at her ear.

  Otter? How does he know Otter?

  Confused, she tried to turn in his arms. His arms closed tighter, pinning her to his broad chest. She turned her head.

  He kissed her—or as much of her mouth as could be reached. “You looked for me? Even though you’re a ship’s captain?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “I did.”

  He was silent a moment. Another kiss, and he said, “I’ve something to confess as well, Maurynna.”

  The way he spoke her name was like a caress. She savored it.

  He continued, “I’m not a dockhand either.”

  With that he released her, stepping back at the same time. As she turned she was blinded by a blaze of light. She blinked, wondering where he’d suddenly gotten a torch.

  When she could see again she was amazed to see a small ball of fire hanging in the air between them. Tearing her gaze from this wonder, she stretched out her hand to him.

  And stopped, gasping. He stood before her with a wry, wistful smile.

  Though she had never seen them before, she knew the clothes he wore only too well. Hadn’t Otter described them a hundred times or more?

  Black tunic, breeches, and boots. A belt of linked silver plaques hung around his waist. Although he stood with his hands by his sides so that the silk lining of the wide dagged sleeves was hidden, she knew it would be the red of heart’s blood. A band of silver embroidery, two fingers wide, trimmed the square-cut neck of his tunic.

  “Are you mad?” she gasped, horrified. “That’s the garb of a Dragonlord! If you’re caught impersonating one, the gods only know what will happen to you!”

  He smiled as his fingers came up to touch something around his neck: a heavy silver tore of rank. The ends were dragon-heads; their ruby eyes glittered in the light from the ball of fire.

  She felt light-headed, as though she’d stood up too quickly from lying down. “Oh dear gods. That’s coldfire, isn’t it? You—you’re …”

  “Linden Rathan.” He said quietly, “I apologize for the deception. But sometimes … Sometimes I want to be accepted for myself.” A sudden wry smile. “I was afraid you might—shy off.”

  She came to herself then. “Your—Your Grace,” she stammered. She plucked at he
r skirts to make him a courtesy.

  “No!” He caught her hands. “Please—no,” he said. “Not between us. Never between us.”

  He reversed his grip on her hands and brought them up so that they met behind his neck as he gently pulled her closer. Moving as if in a dream, Maurynna went to him. His arms went around her waist.

  “And you must never call me ‘Your Grace’ again, Maurynna,” he said. “Only by my first name.”

  She looked up at him, still unable to comprehend this was real. “Linden,” she said. “Oh gods, I don’t believe this.”

  He kissed her then. And again and again.

  If she dreamed, she hoped she wouldn’t wake for a long time—if ever.

  But the strong, solid warmth of him was real. So was the dry voice that came out of the darkness.

  “I see you two have already introduced yourselves,” Otter said. “And I take it, Linden, that you’ve found your ‘dockhand.’”

  Twenty-two

  I’m not sure I believe this, Otter said in Linden’s mind. It’s just too much like a bard’s tale.

  And you a bard, Linden replied, laughing silently. Have you no faith? Those tales have to come from somewhere, after all. To think I sat through that wretched meeting and she was so close …

  He twined his fingers through Maurynna’s. He knew he was grinning like an idiot, but he didn’t care. To finally find his soultwin after so long without hope …

  “You should go in and meet the rest of the family,” Otter said. “It will set Maylin’s mind at ease.”

  “What do you mean?” Maurynna asked as Linden said, “Who?”

  “Maylin is Rynna’s cousin.” Otter folded his arms across his chest. “Almost as soon as I went in there looking for you, Rynna, she dragged me off to one side and demanded that I talk some sense into you. Seems she’s very upset about some lowly dockhand you’re mooning over—”

  “Ot-ter!” Her tone was pure outrage.

  Linden slid an arm around Maurynna’s shoulders. “We should reassure her, then. But I think, Otter, that it might be a kindness to warn them first.”

  Otter’s face lit in a mischievous grin. “I can’t wait to see Maylin’s face. She was rather … eloquent on the subject of dockhands who look above themselves.”

  Otter strolled off to the house, humming as he went. Linden turned to Maurynna. “We’ll give him a bit of time, then go in. Do you think Maylin will mind now?” he teased as he rested his cheek against the top of her head.

  “I don’t think she’ll believe this. I don’t,” Maurynna said, her voice shaking.

  “Don’t worry, love; you’ve time to get used to the idea.” Centuries’ worth.

  Almost as soon as Otter walked back into the house Maylin pounced and dragged him into the front room.

  “Well? Did you find her? And did you talk some sense into her?” she demanded. She eyed him suspiciously. “You weren’t gone for very long. Certainly not long enough to argue with Rynna.”

  Before he could answer, Maylin’s mother Elenna entered, Kella clinging to her skirts. “Talk what sense into Rynna? Maylin, what is happening? Your cousin has either had her head in the clouds or has been moping about as though she’s lost a friend—or worse. And don’t think I haven’t seen you scowling at her, either.”

  Otter wondered how a woman who looked as much like a tiny bird as Elenna did could sound so stern. Seeing Maylin’s dilemma—should she tattle on her cousin, or face her mother’s anger—Otter decided the time had come to set the stage.

  “Maylin is worried because Maurynna’s suddenly become enamored of a dockhand she met. I daresay she went looking for him today, didn’t she, Maylin?” the bard said. He ignored Maylin’s hiss of outrage at his betrayal.

  Elenna’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into her grey-threaded brown curls. “Dockhand?” She turned her gaze upon her older daughter. “You knew of this and didn’t tell me?”

  Maylin set her lips in a stubborn line and glared at Otter.

  “It so happens that her, ah, ‘dockhand’ was searching for her,” Otter continued. “I brought him here and they found each other out in the garden.” Which is no more than the truth.

  “Otter,” Elenna said, and her tone threatened to flay the hide from his back and salt the wounds, “you should know better than that. If word should get back to Kesselandt and the others, Maurynna could well face a great deal of trouble, even to losing her rank as captain. The Erdons are well above dalliances with common dockhands. I’d best have a word with the girl and send that upstart on his way.”

  Otter stepped in front of Elenna and caught Maylin as she tried to get past him. “Oh, but Elenna—this is a most uncommon dockhand. I think it would be well if you set out a bit of food—bread and cheese, that’s homelike and he’ll like that—and that fine ale you brew to make him welcome.”

  Elenna eyed him. “In-deed?”

  Otter nodded, enjoying himself. “My word as a bard on it. Come; I’ll even help you and Maylin lay the table in the front room.”

  As he helped Elenna and Maylin set out mugs of foaming ale and bread and cheese, Otter refused to answer their increasingly frustrated questions. “You’ll see,” he said as he dodged Kella bearing a stack of plates in her arms.

  But when he heard the door open, Otter relented. Best to warn them lest one of them faint from the sutprise. “The man Maurynna met while unloading her ship is no dockhand. He’d simply gone down to look at the ship I came in on. He was amused by her mistake and didn’t tell her otherwise. He’s Linden Rathan.”

  “What!” Elenna gasped, one hand flying to her mouth as the sound of boots could be heard in the hall.

  Kella’s mouth formed an O of surprise.

  “It can’t be!” Maylin said in a fierce whisper. “He’s dallying with Lady Sherrine of Colrane!”

  Now it was Otter’s turn to be surprised—and concerned. “What?” he said in unconscious imitation of Elenna.

  Maurynna’s voice drifted in from the hall. “I think they’re in here; I heard voices.”

  Maurynna appeared in the doorway. She glowed with happiness; Otter thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful. The look in her eyes caught at his heart and woke the beginnings of a song.

  Linden looked in over her shoulder. “You’re the two I wave to every day,” he said, surprised, as he followed Maurynna in.

  A small whirlwind flew past Otter. Linden bent and swept Kella up.

  “Hello, kitten!” the Dragonlord said in delight. “I’m glad to finally meet you and your sister at last.”

  Otter hung back. It would sound too much like a herald announcing him if I introduce him. This way is better, he thought as Linden greeted the women of the Vanadin family, laughing and informal, Kella perched on one arm. He smiled as he noticed how the Dragonlord’s free hand found Maurynna’s at every opportunity, even after they sat to eat.

  The conversation, stiff at first, relaxed as the Vanadins accepted Linden as one of their own. They talked for many a candlemark. To Maylin’s, “How did you meet?” Otter said, “I found him camping during my journeyman’s trek.”

  Linden smothered a laugh. “So you did, Otter—and none too pleased to share the space with a bumpkin, I remember. Give over, man, and stop denying it. It was all over your face that first night.”

  “Gods help us, boyo, can you blame me for thinking that? More than six hundred years and you’ve still got that wretched mountain accent!” Otter retorted. “At least you were a good audience.”

  “So I was. Lleld still wishes she could have seen your face when you found out, you know,” said Linden.

  “I can imagine,” Otter said. “She’d still be laughing.”

  Maurynna asked, “Who is Lleld?”

  “Lleld,” said Linden, “is, as they would say in the mountains, ‘a right little hellion’ of a Dragonlord.”

  Otter continued, “She’s little—as tall as a child of some ten years or so—and takes great, and perverse, delight in call
ing Linden ‘little one.’”

  Maylin laughed. “You? Little?”

  “It’s the traditional endearment for the youngest Dragonlord,” Linden said. “Lleld uses it every chance she gets.” He turned to Maurynna and said gently, “I’m enjoying this too much to leave, but leave I must. We all have business to attend to tomorrow, and I’ve kept all of you from your sleep for much too long.”

  Linden transferred the sleeping Kella from his lap to her mother’s arms. Then he and Maurynna walked slowly into the hall. Otter stayed behind in tacit agreement with Elenna and Maylin.

  Gods, but it must be hard. To find the other half of yourself at long last—and to turn away and leave her, even if it is only for the night, Otter thought as their footsteps retreated down the hall. He listened to the silence, broken occasionally by soft whispers, waiting for the sound of the door.

  When he heard it, he reckoned the time he thought it would take Linden to mount up and ride a short distance. All around him the ladies of the Vanadin household talked excitedly. When he judged the time right, Otter “nudged” Linden.

  Maylin said something that leads me to believe you’re in the midst of a dalliance, boyo, he began when Linden mindspoke him, feeling his way delicately.

  I was, but I was not the only man Sherrine was dallying with, so no harm done.

  The answer sounded surprised but not angry. Heartened, Otter gathered his courage and plunged on.

  So she was right about who, as well. Ah, boyo, there may be trouble of this.

  More surprise and now consternation. What do you mean? Do you know Sherrine?

  Otter remembered not to shake his head. Not personally, but I know of her. Sherrine’s a Colrane, and they’re all fiercely proud. Gossip at court has it that she’s had dalliances galore and boasts that no man has ever cast her aside.

  Meaning she’s always been the one to end them? She and I spoke of this, Otter, and I warned her she might not be the only one. She understood and accepted it. Indeed, and here Linden’s mindvoice filled with chagrin, she quite tartly pointed out that the same applied to her. As I said, she’s been dallying with someone else as well all along. So I don’t think there will be any trouble; stop worrying.