The Last Dragonlord

by Joanne Bertin

  Otter sighed. I hope you’re right, boyo; I truly hope you’re right.

  Twenty-three

  The old mage sat on a stool before the fire, stirring the pot bubbling on the hob. He brought the wooden spoon to his bearded lips and sipped carefully. The black-and-white cat wove a pattern between his ankles.

  “It’s done now, Merro,” the old man said. “Needs a bit of salt, but it’ll do.”

  “Mmrow,” the cat answered.

  Nethuryn stood up slowly, groaning at the stiffness in his joints and back. “Ah, Merro, Merro. I’m too old for this running. I think it’s here we’ll stay, my boy, come what may. We’ll do well enough here, eh?”

  The cat stretched up and danced snowy white forepaws against the old man’s knee. “Mmm-row!”

  “Patience, little greedy-guts.” Running his fingers through his long white beard, Nethuryn muttered, “Where did I put those bowls? Ah! There they are.”

  He shuffled painfully across the room, fetched two wooden bowls from a shelf and went back to the simmering stew pot. He ladled some into a bowl—careful to equally divide the few bits of meat—and set it before the fire. Merro ran up and crouched before it, white paws tucked under himself, pink tongue lapping delicately.

  “Careful now! It’s hot. But there’s naught like tender young coney in a stew, is there, my lad? Eat up.”

  Leaving the cat to enjoy his supper, Nethuryn filled the second bowl and carried it to the table. He broke off a chunk of the brown bread already there and sopped up some of the broth with it. He chewed slowly, examining by the glow of the single rushlight the one room of the cottage that was their new home.

  “It’s not what we’re used to, is it, Merro-lad? But we should be safe here—we and that.” He nodded at the small chest resting on the shelf with the only other pot, more bowls and a wooden dough trough flanking it on one side and a clay jug on the other. The word “spices” was crudely carved into its face.

  Nethuryn tore his gaze from it. Perhaps he should have given it up when he first knew Kas wanted it. But he didn’t trust young Kas. Oh, no; not at all. There was something about the coldness he remembered in his former student’s eyes that made Nethuryn’s flesh creep.

  Too old, too slow now. My magics are nearly gone. If only I had never revealed to Kas that I had the cursed thing. But what’s done is done and it should be well hidden here, he told himself as he ate his stew. And Merro and I are warm and comfortable.

  For the first time in tendays he let himself relax. The little cottage was comfortable, the stew before him rich and savory with herbs from the garden, and Merro had the woods around to hunt in. They would do well enough.

  Nethuryn drank the last drop of broth from the bowl and sat tired but content, watching the cat clean his whiskers. He fell into the light doze of the very old.

  A crash of thunder and a terrified yowl from Merro brought him awake. Nethuryn struggled to his feet, confused and frightened. A storm? But there had been no sign of a storm earlier.

  A second crash. It took Nethuryn precious moments before he realized that what he’d taken for thunder was the sound of the door being kicked open. He raised his hands to begin a spell, but it was too late. The door flew open, its latch shattered. A man filled the opening. Something in the man’s hand flashed in the fire’s light, then streaked through the air.

  Nethuryn fell back into the chair, fingers clutched around the throwing dagger buried to the hilt between his ribs. Recognizing the man, he gasped, “Pol—Kas couldn’t have told you to—” He still didn’t want to believe the worst.

  “Be quiet, old fool. You shouldn’t have made me hunt you down,” the stocky man snarled. But the feral glee in his eyes told Nethuryn that Kas Althume’s servant had enjoyed the chase—and lusted for the kill.

  The knife a fire in his chest, Nethuryn could only watch helplessly as Pol ransacked his meager belongings. The man tore the bed apart first, then wrenched the door from the clothes cupboard with a powerful heave. Nethuryn fought for the strength to form a spell, but neither hands nor voice obeyed him. Indeed, it was all he could do to breathe now. Merro pressed against him, mewling piteously.

  Pol worked a methodical way through the room; Nethuryn suspected he enjoyed the destruction he wrought. He even tore out whatever walls he could, seeking a hiding place behind them.

  At last Nethuryn managed to gasp, “Not here. Buried it.”

  Pol sneered. “The hell you did, old man. You would never have given it up so easily. You should have, long ago, when your magic first began to fail. Now where is it?”

  Nethuryn whimpered, as much against the pain of the truth as that of the knife. He was dying; he knew it. There were many things he was sorry for in his long life and creating what lay in the little chest was not the least of them. He’d been a fool. He should have destroyed it or given it into the keeping of a more powerful mage whom he trusted. Yet how to give up what had cost him so much pain and toil? But perhaps—just perhaps—if he kept silent until the end, Pol would think he really had gotten rid of the thing and would go—

  The sight of Kas Althume’s minion standing before the shelf filled with the homely kitchenware wrung an involuntary protest from Nethuryn.

  Pol looked over one burly shoulder and smiled. “Am I, then, ‘hot’ as they say in the children’s game?” he mocked. “Why, Nethuryn, I believe I am. Look how your eyes are starting from your head—or is that just death? But clever, old man, to hide it in the open like this. Had you not squealed like a pricked pig, I should have wasted more time seeking for it in a hundred secret places—for it is in here, isn’t it? Ah, I thought so.”

  Big hands closed over the crude little chest; Nethuryn stretched out his own hand. “No—please. Kas doesn’t understand how danger—”

  Pol turned swiftly and slapped the hand aside. “Fool; my lord understands more than you ever did. He knows what power is and how to take it—as I take this.” He stood, thick legs apart, and opened the chest.

  Through the rushing in his ears, Nethuryn heard him murmur, “Who’d have thought the old bastard so clever?” as Pol tossed packets of spices to the floor. Then a deep “Ah!” of pleasure and the assassin lifted something the size of a large apple from the chest.

  Nethuryn stared at the jewel that Pol held aloft. It drank in the flickering light from the fire and let it fall dripping to the floor in icy blue flashes. Nethuryn grew colder as the light in the stone waxed brighter. Merro fled yowling into the night.

  “Of course—it’s feeding on you, isn’t it, Nethuryn? You’re dying so it’s drinking your soul. How kind of you, old man.”

  Pol turned the glittering stone from side to side, admiring it. “My master will be well pleased indeed. A soultrap jewel already charged with the soul of one who opposed him.”

  Nethuryn’s dimming gaze followed the jewel’s shining path. Its light filled his eyes. He saw the jewel blaze in final triumph, despaired, and died.

  Twenty-four

  Maylin stumbled bleary-eyed down the stairs early the next morning. Only long familiarity with her route kept her from falling.

  Tea. She needed a mug of good, strong tea. That was the only way to cope with two candlemarks’ worth of sleep. I wonder if Maurynna ever got any. I certainly wouldn’t have. She yawned as she stepped off the bottom step and swung one-handed around the newel post. Her bare feet slid against the stone tiles as she shuffled down the hall to the kitchen.

  She cocked her head as she passed the office and heard voices. Good gods! ’Prentices who don’t have to be rousted out of bed? What are we coming to? she thought with drowsy amusement.

  A quiet, deep-voiced laugh banished all thoughts of tea from her mind. That’s not an apprentice! She gathered up her nightgown, spun on one heel, and ran back to the office. The door was slightly ajar. Gingerly pushing it open a little farther, she peeked around the edge.

  Maurynna and Linden Rathan stood with their arms around each other. He was saying, “It can be done, t
hen? You won’t mind the sail?”

  Maurynna answered, “It’s an easy one; I don’t think my crew will mind at all. Let me think a moment … . Hm, the tide should be right two mornings from now to—”

  The door swung farther open under Maylin’s hand—which she had not meant it to do. Not at all. She stood revealed in the doorway, wishing the earth would open up beneath her.

  Maurynna and Linden Rathan jumped apart, but relaxed when they saw it was her. The Dragonlord slid an arm around Maurynna’s shoulders. He was also, Maylin saw to complete her humiliation, trying to hide a smile. Maurynna just looked surprised.

  “Your—Your G-Grace,” Maylin stuttered. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to—” A sudden revelation struck her dumb. How right they look together.

  “No harm done, Maylin,” Linden Rathan said. “But there is one thing I wish to make clear right now—”

  Maylin braced herself for a well-earned tongue-lashing.

  “There’s no need for such formality. It makes me uncomfortable. Please, may we dispense with the titles? They’ll be awkward—especially on the picnic.”

  Baffled, Maylin echoed, “Picnic?”

  He had, part of her bemused mind noted, an utterly wicked little-boy grin. “Yes. We’re all going on a picnic: Otter, Maurynna and I, you, Kella—and Prince Rann.”

  Linden arrived at the palace well before the day’s council session was to begin. One of the servants met him as he crossed the great hall.

  “Your Grace,” she said. “You’re here very early today. Is there anything you wish?”

  “Will Duchess Alinya be awake yet?” he asked.

  “Yes, my lord. She usually rises early and breaks her fast in her chambers. Do you wish to be escorted there?”

  “Yes.” A sudden thought struck Linden. “And please send someone to ask Healer Tasha to attend us in the Duchess’s chambers.”

  A short while later he was following the servant through the maze that was the palace of Casna.

  “Get back on board with you and that crew of lunatics? What was that you said to me once—‘I may be mad but I’m not stupid’?”

  Maurynna couldn’t help laughing at the expression on the bard’s face. “Otter, it will be perfectly calm weather—I promise you. If not, we won’t go. It’s as simple as that.”

  Otter crossed his arms over his chest. “No.”

  “But you must go. It won’t be any fun without you.”

  That drew a derisive snort from the bard. “As if you’ll notice whether I’m there or not as long as Linden is.”

  She hoped her face wasn’t as red as it felt. “Prince Rann will be disappointed. Linden told me he was so excited when he heard you were coming to Casna and might sing for him.”

  She watched Otter visibly waver at the appeal to his professional pride. At last the bard said, “Oh, very well. But only because I’d hate to disappoint the boy.”

  Linden nibbled a seedcake and politely ignored Duchess Alinya and Healer Tasha as, their heads close together, they discussed his proposal. It wasn’t easy because of his acute hearing, but on the whole he managed with only catching a word or two.

  At first both women looked doubtful. Then he heard “sunshine” and “do him good.” Alinya looked thoughtful at that, but not convinced. “Sea air” came next, but even that was not enough to sway the duchess.

  Linden grew nervous. What if Alinya refused? While he outranked her and could force the issue if he wanted, it would not be politic.

  Then Tasha whispered something that settled the debate. Alinya said, “Very well, then, but only under that condition. And let it be a surprise, else the child will make himself sick with excitement.”

  The women turned back to him. “Dragonlord,” Healer Tasha said, “we have decided that this would be of great benefit to Prince Rann. There is, however, one condition: I go as well.”

  Thank the gods. “Healer Tasha, if you hadn’t suggested it, I would have insisted upon it. Welcome to our picnic.”

  Maylin stopped on the corner, going over in her mind what else she needed to shop for and wondering when she’d wake from this mad dream. Dragonlords and orphaned princes, indeed! Once again she reminded herself it was quite real.

  And her shopping was almost done. She looked into her basket. The bulk of her purchases would be delivered the night before the picnic. The basket held only a few special things that she didn’t trust anyone else to pick out for her: the two little crocks of honey, lemon balm and rose, so tasty with bread; a hard little loaf of the whitest sugar she could find; a whole nutmeg; the small parchment packets of cinnamon and cloves, even pepper and saffron. She winced at the cost of the last two; she had bargained the spice merchant to a fare-thee-well, but the price still offended her frugal merchant soul—even if she spent Linden’s money and not her own.

  Linden. It felt odd to call him that, even in her own mind. She turned her attention back to the contents of the basket. There was, she decided, still enough room for one last little thing. But what?

  “Maylin!”

  Maylin looked around at the sound of her cousin’s voice. She had no trouble spotting Maurynna above the mostly Cassorin passers-by. “Hello—have you spoken with your crew already?” she called as the taller girl worked her way through the crowd.

  “Yes,” Maurynna said when they stood together. “They’re curious as cats, too. Every last one of ’em volunteered to go. I didn’t tell them much, just enough to whet their appetites, else the word would go out through the taverns and we’d have half of Casna at the dock to see the fun. I’m glad I met you. If you’re finished, we can walk home together after I give my family’s greetings to Almered.”

  Maylin snapped her fingers. “That’s it! Candied ginger.”

  Maurynna scratched her head. “Candied? …”

  “Never mind. I’d forgotten the Assantikkan quarter was near here.” Maylin shifted the basket to her other arm. “Almered has candied ginger. I want to see his silks, as well. Mother promised Kella her first silk gown for the Winter Solstice celebrations if Father’s trip went well, and Almered has some of the best silk I’ve seen. Shall we?”

  “You say it’s as if we never told her?” Althume said as he slipped the chain with the amethyst pendant over Peridaen’s head.

  “Just so. If I mention it, it’s as if she hasn’t heard me,” the prince said. A worried frown creased his brow. “I’ve seen her do something like this before, but never to this degree. It scares the hell out of me, Kas.”

  The mage considered Peridaen’s words. “It is odd—but I’ve seen its like before as well. Don’t force her to admit it, Peridaen. This may be the best thing.”

  Peridaen fingered the jewel hanging around his neck. “I hate to say it, but … I think you’re right. Otherwise—” He abruptly cleared his throat. “Damn, I’m going to be late for that council meeting.”

  “You wished to see me, Anstella?” Lord Duriac asked.

  Anstella looked up from the ivory lucet she held in her hands. As Duriac joined her on the marble garden bench, she carefully wrapped the silken cord she was weaving around the horns of the lyre-shaped tool and stowed it and the ball of thread in an embroidered pouch at her belt.

  “I did,” she said. “A delay is needed. Goad Chardel to the breaking point today.”

  “In the council?” Duriac asked in some surprise.

  “Where better? And talk to the others; see that they’re ready to join in.”

  “It’s not much more than a candlemark until the council meets,” Duriac objected. “That doesn’t give me much time.”

  Anstella shrugged. “That is not my concern. I have told you what is needed and I expect it to be done.” She stood up and smoothed her skirts. “Now go; there’s not much time and I have other things to do.”

  I found her! Linden exulted to the other Dragonlords as they entered the room ahead of the members of the council.

  Thank the gods, came the heartfelt chorus. How? Kief asked. What is he
r name? Tarlna demanded.

  She isn’t a dockhand after all. She’s the captain of the ship. Her name is Maurynna Erdon and I met her when Otter brought me to her family’s house. We’d thought to enlist her help since she knows the waterfront.

  Oh, what a tangle, Tarlna said, a laugh behind the words.

  Linden nodded. Worse than a bard’s tale. There’s a favor I need to ask, but before I do, let me say that I have Duchess Alinya’s and Healer Tasha’s approval for this. He quickly outlined his plan to them. So I’d like to cancel the council meeting for that day.

  Kief frowned at that. But all he said was, We’ll see, Linden. We’ll see.

  Although he was Assantikkan and did business in the Assantikkan quarter, Almered al zef Bakkuran had a shop in the Cassorin style rather than an open stall in the bazaar. It was a large shop, a treasure chest of an amazing variety of goods, and smelled wonderful.

  Maurynna loved to visit it whenever she was in port. As she and Maylin entered the open door, she called out, “Greetings, cousin,” in Assantikkan.

  At first she thought the place empty. Then the tall, rangy figure of Almered rose from behind a counter. His dark face lit with delight. “Maurynna! I am so glad to see you!”

  He came around the counter, hands outstretched to her, the amulets and beads in his long braids clicking together. She took his hands and they kissed first one cheek, then the other in the traditional greeting.

  “You look wonderful, my dear. And what are these? You have made captain since the last time you were here? O, luck, luck, indeed! You must come to Pakkasan’s tisrahn. And Maylin! I almost didn’t see you behind Maurynna. You must come as well, and your father and mother if they are able to. Let me fetch Falissa; she will want to see both of you.”