The Last Dragonlord

by Joanne Bertin

  “I just told you she was! She appeared at Lord Sevrynel’s that night.”

  “Then that’s when she did it. Somehow she slipped something into that blasted farewell cup,” Maurynna insisted.

  “In front of half a hundred people? And then drank that same poison herself? Give over, Rynna,” he’d retorted in exasperation. “The girl’s too bloody fond of herself to be suicidal.”

  “Then she met him somewhere else and tricked him into taking it,” said Maurynna.

  He’d ridiculed the idea. It wasn’t long before they were yelling at each other, followed by Elenna threatening to throw them both out of the house. Since he’d had to return here anyway, Otter exited in a grand huff, but Maurynna had not relented. Indeed, up until the last moment she had insisted she was right, screaming down the stairs after him, “You mark my words, you stubborn wretch—she did it to him!” as he’d walked out the door.

  Damn good lungs on that girl, he thought to himself now. Too bad she can’t carry a tune. Aloud, Otter said, “Did you meet Sherrine again after you left the dinner?”

  “No. No, I waited alone at the ferry.” Linden fell back among the pillows once more. “Oh, gods—I’m so tired. Please …”

  Kief said, “If you wish to rest now—”

  “Wait.” Otter held up a hand, remembering something.

  “Just one more thing. Linden, while we were with you in the field, Maurynna told me you’d spoken once, but that she couldn’t understand what you meant. It was something about asking questions. Could those two men have been questioning you?”

  “Gods help us,” Kief muttered. “I never even thought of that. I thought they were only after—” He broke off.

  Linden struggled upright once more, the lethargy replaced by horror. “I don’t know! What if they did? And if so, what did I tell them?” he shouted, fighting to get out of bed.

  Otter caught Linden’s shoulders and pushed him back against the pillows. That he could do it told Otter just how weak Linden was.

  The door burst open; Healer Tasha hurled herself into the room, flask in hand, apprentice close behind. “I knew this would happen,” she said grimly. “Get out, all of you. Now!”

  They retreated before her wrath. Otter paused in the doorway to watch as Healer and apprentice expertly subdued their patient and forced whatever potion they had down him.

  Tasha looked over one shoulder and snarled, “I said ‘get out,’ curse it, and I meant it. Do you want to kill him?”

  Almost lost behind her tirade, Otter heard Linden whispering in despair, “Dear gods—what did I say? What did I betray about us?”

  Otter shut the door, unable to bear any more.

  Fifty-two

  Sherrine ambled through the garden of her family’s country estate. As she walked, now and again she would select some unlucky flower and pluck it from its stem, only to shred it in her fingers and cast the fragrant remains upon the ground moments later.

  She had never been so bored in her life.

  “And all because of that stupid little bitch,” she told her latest victim, a tall spire of foxglove, as she tore the blossoms from its stem. “How dare he take her part.”

  And I don’t care that it was best to play out the charade of “retiring” to the country. I shall go mad if I have to stay here much longer.

  Even as a child she’d hated coming here. She much preferred the excitement that was Casna. She threw down the foxglove.

  “My lady! Where are you?” a voice called from the other end of the gardens.

  “Here, Tandavi,” she called. “Beyond the lilacs. What is it now?”

  “Your lady mother,” Tandavi called as she ran through the garden. She stopped before her mistress and finished with a gasp, “She wishes to see you—immediately!”

  Sherrine clenched her fists. What right had her mother to sneer at her now? She’d done what was needed—and done it well. Indeed, she was the only person who could have played the part.

  She was about to send Tandavi back with a blistering message when a thought struck her and she stopped short.

  Her mother thought this country retreat as boring as she did. Not even for the pleasure of deriding her would her mother journey all this way from Casna; not even if she had a thousand reasons and a pocketful of gold for the task.

  So why? …

  Sherrine caught up her skirts and ran. Tandavi gave a startled yelp as her mistress passed her and hurried to catch up.

  Sherrine found her mother waiting in the front room of the house. She entered, and after a pause to catch her breath, deliberately made a hurried, ungraceful courtesy. “My lady mother?” she said, waiting.

  Her mother said not one word about her clumsiness. That alerted Sherrine as nothing else would have.

  That, and the queer look in her mother’s eyes.

  “You are well these days?” her mother asked, an odd note in her voice.

  “Indeed, madam, I am quite well—if somewhat bored,” Sherrine replied cautiously.

  “You have taken no ill effects from—”

  Her mother did not finish the sentence, but Sherrine knew what she meant.

  Puzzled, she said, “No. None at all, I assure you.” For the first time she noticed that her mother still wore riding garb, and that the garb was filthy; her mother hadn’t even bothered to bathe and change clothes before summoning her. Add to that the lines of fatigue in her mother’s face, as if the other woman had ridden hard to get here, and one had a mystery indeed.

  The next words came hard; Sherrine vowed long ago to never ask her mother for anything, and she’d kept that vow. But she had to know … .

  “Mother—what is this all about?”

  Moments passed in silence. When the baroness spoke at last, the words came in a bleak monotone. “Linden Rathan may be dying. And I … feared that …”

  The room spun. Sherrine put out a hand; her mother caught it and led her to a chair. Half-swooning, Sherrine sank down into it.

  “Dear gods,” she whispered. This was no plan of hers. Make Linden suffer, yes—but to kill him? No. No and no and no.

  A surge of anger cleared her head. Had that bastard of a mage known this might happen? She bit her lip. If Linden died, Althume would pay.

  Fifty-three

  Prince and steward rode through the city, their escort following behind. The streets were quieter than usual despite the crowds that had poured into Casna for both the upcoming Solstice celebration and a chance to see the Dragonlords. It seemed the threat of Linden Rathan’s death and the renewed possibility of civil war had dampened everyone’s spirits.

  “Eerie, isn’t it?” Peridaen said as he graciously acknowledged the bows of a trio of men, clerks by their dress. “With this many people there should be much more noise.”

  Althume nodded, looking around. “Interesting that even these cattle should sense something is happening. Ah—I almost forgot. A messenger arrived this morning with a letter for you while you were in your bath. My guess is it’s from Anstella.” He dug into his belt pouch and brought out a folded and sealed square of parchment.

  Peridaen took it and dropped the reins to lie on his horse’s neck. He read, nodding to himself as he did. “Good,” he said. “Anstella sends word that Sherrine is well.” He took up his reins once more.

  “Of course she is,” Althume said. “I gave her an emetic to purge her stomach and the antidote to be certain the potion would not affect her. And since she was also on the other side of the river when I invoked the second part of the spell, she was quite safe; the potion was only the first part.”

  “I see,” said the prince. Then, after a long silence, “Kas—what was in that stuff that made Linden Rathan so sick?”

  Althume smiled. He knew Peridaen had been working himself up to this question for days. No doubt the prince’s reaction would prove amusing. “Among other interesting things, keftih,” he said. “Quite a lot of it, in fact.”

  Horror. Disgust. Finally panic. “Damn
it all,” Peridaen managed to say at last, “what if you’re caught with it? You know what the penalties are for possessing that filth—it’s used only for the blackest magery.” His face was pale.

  Althume did something he rarely did: laughed in real amusement. “And what did you think a soultrap jewel was, Peridaen? White magery? Why boggle at keftih if you condone the use of that? We’re fighting a war. We use whatever we must.

  “But don’t worry. I’ve taken precautions; it’s stored somewhere far from your chambers. I have delivered to me only what little I need at a time.” And you haven’t guessed for what yet, have you? I wonder when that acorn will drop, my squeamish prince.

  Fifty-four

  Tasha snapped out of her doze as a hand gently shook her shoulder. She blinked up at Quirel.

  “Go get something to eat and drink,” her apprentice urged. “I’ll sit with him for a while.”

  The Healer yawned. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly midnight. But there’s bread, cheese, cold meats, and ale left out for us in the kitchen. I didn’t bring anything here because, well—” He wrinkled his nose.

  She nodded. The thought of eating in this sickroom with its odd odor was not appealing. She heaved herself to her feet. “I’m not really hungry, but I could do with a walk around, so thank you. There’s been no change.”

  He nodded and took her place by Linden Rathan’s bedside.

  Once out of the room Tasha leaned against the wall, trying to make up her mind what to do next. She should eat. But walking helped her think. And she desperately needed to do that; she was running out of ideas to help Linden Rathan. She suspected the only reason he was still alive was a deep-down stubborn will to live. But even that couldn’t keep him going much longer if she couldn’t cure whatever ailed him. So she would prowl around and think. Maybe something would come to her.

  Althume strode a spiraling path up the hill in the clearing, chanting as he walked, holding the chest containing the soultrap jewel before him. Pol followed, a torch held in one hand, a limp form slung over his other shoulder. The tiny procession wound its way, moving widdershins, to the altar crowning the flat hilltop.

  The mage laid the chest at the head of the altar and opened it. Pol dumped his burden down less ceremoniously. A muffled grunt of pain escaped it.

  “Careful, Pol,” Althume admonished. “You don’t want to break the lad’s neck now; that would be a waste.”

  He leaned over to examine the victim’s bonds. Excellent; they were still tight. No chance that this one would work his way loose as the last one did. That one had almost gotten away; indeed, would have if he hadn’t turned back screaming at the sight of the dragauth.

  “You tie a better knot than your brother,” he said as he yanked the hood from their victim’s head. The boy, he saw with approval, was gagged.

  Pol chuckled.

  Althume caught the boy’s chin and turned his face from side to side. The lad looked to be twelve or thirteen, pretty for a boy. Althume thought he could guess how Pol had captured him—not that the mage cared. “You’re certain no one will miss him?”

  “Yes, my lord. He’s naught but a common whore peddling his ass down by the docks. His sort disappear all the time.”

  Whatever drug Pol had given the boy was wearing off. Wide, terrified eyes stared at Althume as the boy tried to scream despite the cloth cutting into the corners of his mouth.

  The mage smiled thinly. “Thought you’d been taken up by a gentleman at last, did you? How sad. But you’re about to do the best thing you could with your miserable little life, boy. You’re going to help us defeat the Dragonlords,” he said as picked up the soultrap jewel with one hand and drew the dagger from his belt with the other.

  The boy threw himself against his bonds. Pol shoved him down again and held him.

  Althume began the chant of sacrifice.

  You’d think that storm would have cooled everything off, Tasha thought as, still seeking inspiration, she wandered the vast lawn that separated the house from the road. It’s as hot as a—

  “Dear gods” she yelled. “That’s it!” She ran for the house.

  Maurynna let herself into the house quietly, not wanting to wake up her aunt or cousins. She hadn’t meant to stay at the warehouse this late, but what with one thing and another, talking to Danaet, and straightening out problems, the evening and too much of the night had slipped away. Besides, it kept her busy and didn’t let her think about Linden or her newest problem—at least not too much.

  Someone stirred in the front room. “Rynna?” a sleepy voice said.

  She stopped, astonished. “Otter? What are you doing here? I thought you were still at the estate,” she whispered. A possible reason struck her. “Otter—please; Linden’s not …” Her voice failed.

  “He was still the same when I left.” The sleepy bard appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. “I think either Kief or Tarlna would have mindcalled me if anything had happened, so don’t worry.”

  She sagged against the wall, weak with relief. “Thank the gods.”

  “Duchess Alinya sent word that Rann was making himself sick with worry, so I was sent off to cheer the boy up. Tell him stories, sing to him, that sort of thing.” Otter gave his eyes a final rub and shook his head. “Feh. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep waiting for you.”

  “Oh.” Maurynna suddenly felt awkward, remembering the last time she’d seen Otter. “That’s all right.”

  By the way he looked at her, he remembered as well. “How are you faring these days? I’ve been worried about you, too.”

  Maurynna brushed aside the thing that worried her when she wasn’t thinking about Linden, saying only, “Well enough. Thank you, though.” She wondered how to frame an apology for the things she’d said. And would he even accept it?

  But before she could speak, Otter said, “Rynna, don’t say a word. It’s all past.” His eyes twinkled with a mischievous light. “Besides, it would ruin my ‘I told you so’; I’d feel like a lout, then.”

  Maurynna gaped at him.

  “Linden did not meet Sherrine again that night. He rode alone to the ferry. And I think if she’d had whatever felled Linden, she’d be dead by now. Yet we’ve had no such word.

  “It had to be those two men you and Maylin saw. Somehow they overpowered Linden and forced him to drink whatever it was. You said they were bending over Linden when you first saw them, yes? Perhaps they were giving it to him even then.”

  Maurynna shook her head. “No. You’re wrong. It was Sherrine. I don’t know how, but she did it.”

  “Dear heart, are you certain you’re not blaming her because of what she did to you and Linden?” Otter said, cradling her hands in her own. “Please—let’s not fight over it again, Rynna. We’ve been friends for too long.”

  “Oh, very well,” she conceded. But I’m right, damn it.

  Otter continued, “While Linden is still angry with Sherrine for the way she trapped him into publicly forgiving her, even he believes her innocent of any part in this.”

  The more fool he, then. Gods above, why is it men think a beautiful woman can do no wrong? Maurynna thought acidly. She sat, fuming. They’d never know the truth; Lady Sherrine would never confess willingly. And by Cassorin law, the only crime a noble could be tortured for was treason. She supposed that the attack on Linden might be stretched to fit that; he was, after all, here to sit in judgement and avert civil war at the behest of the Cassorin council. But as surely as she knew the sun would rise tomorrow, she knew Linden would never demand that; he had no stomach for torture.

  If only the other Dragonlords would insist. If only she could insist … .

  And then it was happening again, just as it had this afternoon. The voices that she had previously heard only while dreaming called to her waking mind, pulling her into herself. One soared above the rest, a sweet voice like the singing of a flute; it spoke to her, enticing her, promising her the freedom of the sky and the songs of the winds.

>   She heard Otter call her name, but she couldn’t answer. And now his voice came from farther and farther away as she sank deeper into her mind. Soon she would be lost in the voices, unable to hear him at all.

  And there was nothing she could do about it.

  Althume ran blood-streaked fingers over the soultrap jewel. It glowed beneath his caress with a faint, pulsating light as it drank in the blood. He regarded it fondly, like a father with a favorite child.

  “A beautiful thing, is it not, Pol? And so useful a tool for a mage. For it stores not only souls—the magic of life—but any sort of magical energy for a bold mage to make use of. And the beauty of it is, once it reaches a certain threshold, it can be used to leech a soul even from a distance, without killing its victim—at least, not right away.”

  Pol continued pulling the clothes from the body sprawled across the altar. “And has this one reached that point, my lord?”

  “Almost, Pol, almost. Catching Nethuryn’s soul within it was a masterly stroke. And using the Dragonlord’s own coldfire a deliciously ironic touch, don’t you think? A few more like this and we’re ready for the next step in my plan.”

  He ceased his contemplation of the bloody jewel to note Pol’s progress. “Done? Good. We’ll burn them in a few minutes. But first let’s give my pet a treat.”

  The mage drew a small bone whistle from his belt pouch and trilled a note upon it. Pol picked up the body and came to stand by him.

  They waited.

  Crackling bushes were their first warning of the dragauth’s approach. The second was the foul stench of rotting flesh on the night breeze.

  One moment the edge of the clearing was empty; the next a towering figure appeared, man-shaped, but standing nearly eight feet tall. Althume regarded this child of his magery with pleasure. Not every mage had the skill to construct a dragauth, even if he had the courage to sacrifice the necessary flesh. Althume had had both. He rubbed his thigh, absently running his fingers over the ridged scar.