The dragauth raised its hands. The torchlight glinted on razor-sharp claws capable of disemboweling a man at a single stroke.
“Give it to him,” Althume ordered.
Pol stepped forward and flung the boy’s body. It flew through the air like some ghastly travesty of a bird. The dragauth snatched it before it could hit the ground.
As he watched his pet eat, Althume couldn’t help chuckling as a thought came to mind: Whatever would poor Peridaen say to this?
He called to her, but the other voice was far sweeter and more seductive—and frightening. She wanted to follow Otter’s voice out of this madness, but the singer in her head was far more powerful. She wasn’t even certain who she was anymore. Maurynna or … Another name danced at the very edge of her mind and vanished like a wisp of fog in sunlight. Then—
Pain. She welcomed it even as she cried out. She concentrated, anchoring herself to it, using it as a beacon to bring herself to safe harbor. The golden voices retreated, the flute-like one last of all.
Her eyes cleared. Otter knelt before her, shaking her.
“Rynna! Rynna—listen to me. Please!”
Trembling, Maurynna focused on the bard. “Otter?” she said uncertainly.
He sat back on his heels. “Thank the gods. Rynna—what happened to you? One moment you were talking to me, the next—”
“There were voices—beautiful voices—calling to me. I’ve been dreaming them, but earlier today, and now … . Am I going mad?” she sobbed, terrified.
“No. No, you’re not. It’s just—you’re just upset about Linden, that’s all. The two of you are … very close, after all, and, well—you’re just upset,” Otter fairly babbled. “That’s all, Maurynna. Things will be better soon. Truly.
“But if it happens again, tell me!”
Servants bearing loads of sheets and firewood came in, set their burdens down, and left to fetch more. Tasha directed others as they folded blankets on the floor before the fireplace.
“That’s right; make it up good and thick. I want him well separated from the cool tiles. That should do. You—put that pile of sheets down here. And make certain those windows are shut tight.”
The other Dragonlords came in, dodging servants rushing out on Tasha’s orders. They looked as though they’d dressed in haste; Kief Shaeldar wore only breeches. Tasha had no time to feel sorry the noise had awakened them.
“What on earth?” he asked.
“It’s as hot as—” Tarlna began in complaint.
“A steam bath in here,” Tarlna finished in triumph. “And it will be hotter yet. If I can’t purge Linden Rathan of whatever’s poisoning him, or cure it, I’ll bloody well sweat it out of him.”
Kief Shaeldar and Tarlna Aurianne looked at each other. Tasha braced herself for an argument; Dragonlords or no, this was her patient and she would brook no interference from the two standing before her.
“You don’t need all this,” Kief Shaeldar said, waving at the firewood. “We can help. We’re yours to order, Healer.”
“Done,” Tasha said, relieved. “Quirel—send the servants away. We’re ready to begin.” At the lift of Kief Shaeldar’s eyebrow, Tasha said quietly, “He may talk in delirium, Dragonlord. I assume that there are things you might prefer the servants not hear.”
Just as quietly the Dragonlord said, “Thank you, Healer.”
When the door shut behind the last servant, Tasha said, “I need a good blaze, Quirel; I want this room as hot as possible. Dragonlord, they told me you carried Linden Rathan to the house, so I know you can pick him up. Would you please lay him down here?” She shook out a sheet and arranged it over the pallet of blankets. “I plan to wrap him in these, changing them each time one is soaked with the poisons he will—I hope—sweat out. If this doesn’t work …” She didn’t want to think about that.
The others nodded and set to work. Tarlna Aurianne and Quirel laid the fire; the Dragonlord set the wood blazing with a word. The sudden blast of heat made Tasha sweat. She gasped as Tarlna Aurianne held her hands in the leaping flames and whispered an incantation under her breath. Her mind screamed that the Dragonlord’s flesh would be burned from her bones, but Tarlna Aurianne withdrew her hands unscathed by the blaze. Now the fire burned twice as hot as before, yet did not consume the wood any faster.
“I trust,” Tarlna Aurianne said, “that this will do.”
“Yes,” said Tasha, fervently wishing that modesty didn’t prevent her from removing her tunic as a panting Quirel was already doing with his. “Your Grace, we’re ready for him here,” she said to Kief Shaeldar.
He flipped the blankets back from Linden Rathan and gently picked up the tall Dragonlord. Tasha marveled at his strength; Linden Rathan was no little weight, and Kief Shaeldar was a small man.
She helped him arrange Linden Rathan on the makeshift bed and with Quirel’s help wrapped the ailing Dragonlord in the first sheet. Tasha noted with satisfaction that there were already a few beads of sweat on Linden Rathan’s forehead. She wiped it away with a cloth, and, prompted by a sudden impulse, sniffed the linen.
The odd smell that permeated the sickroom was stronger, concentrated in the fabric. It was a sour, mousey odor that niggled her memory. Where have I smelled this before? But the answer eluded her. Aloud she said, “I think it’s working, though it’s too soon to be certain. Quirel, make up some catnip tea. If he can drink that, it will make him sweat even more.”
There was nothing to do now but wait and see if her idea worked. The room grew hotter; Tasha felt the sweat running down her back, trickling between her breasts. Tarlna Aurianne twisted her long blond hair up into a knot and fanned her face with a hand. The men were barely more comfortable; their chests glistened in the firelight.
Now and again the others would get up and escape to the relative coolness of the hall, but they would quickly return as though their absence somehow might hurt Linden Rathan. But Tasha stayed by his side, taking his pulse, touching the sheet wrapped around the still form. It stayed depressingly dry.
“More wood on the fire,” she ordered.
Quirel grimaced, but obeyed her.
The room grew unbearable. Tasha could hardly breathe for the heat, but there was no change in her patient. She began to despair.
A little longer; it’s worth trying just a little longer.
But nothing changed.
She was ready to give up when it happened. One moment the sheet under her hand was dry. The next it was soaking and the sour smell overpowering. Though it would cool the room, she didn’t stop Kief Shaeldar when he staggered, gagging, to throw open a window.
“What is that?” he gasped.
“I don’t know,” Tasha replied. “But I’ve a feeling that’s what’s making him so ill. Get that sheet off him; I want a fresh one.”
It seemed that Linden Rathan’s body had suddenly determined to throw off the poison holding it in thrall. He twisted and turned under their hands, tried to push the sheets away as they changed them, muttered things in a language Tasha didn’t recognize but the other Dragonlords seemed to, and sweated like a lathered horse. At times he regained consciousness after a fashion and Tasha forced him to drink as much tea as he could—or would—take.
It was after dawn when Tasha realized that the strange odor was abating. The sheet that Quirel cast to one side smelled of honest sweat now, not noxious substances. She dared to hope a little.
That hope soared when Linden Rathan opened his eyes long enough to ask, “Where’s Maurynna?” and fell into a natural sleep the next moment.
Tasha grinned. “He must be on the mend if he can think of his lady-love at a time like this.”
The other Dragonlords answered her with relieved smiles of their own.
“Shall I return him to the bed?” Kief Shaeldar asked.
“Yes, please. And you, Your Grace,” Tasha said to Tarlna Aurianne, “can you make a fire go out as easily as you can make it burn?”
Tarlna Aurianne nodded and passed a ha
nd through the flames. At once the fire died down to a bed of glowing coals. Then she put a hand to her forehead and drooped as if suddenly tired. An instant later she shook her head, looking a little surprised.
Tasha sympathized. She was exhausted herself, more from strain than anything else. Despite only knowing him for a short time, she liked Linden Rathan. Tarlna Aurianne had known him for—how long? Centuries, at least. The thought of his possible death must have terrified the other Dragonlords.
Not to mention what losing the big Dragonlord would have done to Rann. Tasha dug her fingers into her thighs at the thought. If she ever found out who had poisoned Linden Rathan—and, by extension, put Rann into danger—she’d do everything in her power to bring them to justice.
Fifty-five
He’s better, Kief reported. But Healer Tasha says he’s more depressed than she’d hoped he’d be by now.
You think he’s still worried about what he might have given away? Otter said, relieved at Kief’s continuing messages, but worried himself at the lingering depression now that the crisis was past.
Likely. How is the girl faring?
Otter grimaced as he continued pulling on his boots; Kief’s mindcall had come in the middle of dressing. You’re not going to like this, he said, and detailed Maurynna’s “attacks.” It’s happening every day now; sometimes twice a day or more. And there’s been a new twist lately: her senses become unnaturally sharp. Sight, sound, smell, taste—all threaten to overwhelm her. Then, moments later, it’s over.
Gods help me; this may be the result of Changing so close to her. Linden will throttle me if anything happens to the girl.
Hm—the first episode did happen that night, but maybe … Could this simply be a sign of impending First Change? Otter asked.
He felt Kief withdraw from his mind and guessed the Dragonlord was mulling over what he’d said. He used the time to shrug into a tunic and find his belt where it had lost itself under the bed. Then Kief was back.
Perhaps. First Change does take some of us that way. Many Dragonlords have no inkling that something is happening to them. There’s simply a sudden, overwhelming urge to find an open area and then it—happens. For an unlucky few, there are dreams and visions frightening enough to make them think they’re going mad. I think Linden might have been one of those; Lleld would know. She was with him when he first Changed. While it does not necessarily mean that Maurynna would follow his pattern, that may well be what’s happening to her.
Especially, Otter said, if their bond is a very close one, perhaps? He shuddered, wondering what it must be like to be caught in such a waking nightmare. Which I think it is, so the timing of this may simply be coincidence.
True, said Kief.
Otter smiled. The Dragonlord sounded like a schoolboy who’d been let off an anticipated whipping. Which, if Kief was responsible for hurting Maurynna somehow, would likely have been the least Linden would have done to him. Will he see me yet?
No. He wants no one. And I’m worried … . Then, abruptly, Thank you for keeping watch over the girl. I’ll mindcall you again should anything change.
Alone in his mind once more, Otter stared unseeing at the whitewashed walls of his tiny attic bedroom in the Vanadins’ household. He did not like this. He did not like this at all. Linden ambushed and nearly dying; Maurynna terrified she was falling into madness.
What else is going to go wrong?
Fifty-six
The day was hot and sticky. Maurynna tugged at her tunic, pulling the linen away from her back. Despite the heat, she walked easily alongside Otter, matching his long strides as they made their way through the crowds thronging the marketplace and milling through the streets.
“Have—have you received any other word about Linden?” she asked as casually as she could.
Otter shook his head. “The last was two days ago. Kief mindspoke me; he said Linden is still the same as he was the other times. Depressed, won’t see anyone, hardly eats. It’s not like him at all, Rynna. They haven’t even told him yet that Tsan Rhilin’s missing. Afraid of what that would do, I suspect. But Kief doesn’t realize that with all the practice I’ve had mindspeaking with Linden, I can sense more through a mindlink than most truehumans.”
They dodged around a troupe of street jugglers. Maurynna dug into her belt pouch and tossed a copper to the tumblers’ boy as he passed around a wooden bowl. She tugged at her tunic again.
“I’ve a good mind to take the Sea Mist out just to get away from this cursed heat,” she grumbled. And to run away from her worries. But they’d simply hunt her down.
Said Otter, “And I’d be tempted to go with you.”
Before Maurynna could reply, a ruckus ahead claimed their attention. Since she was taller than most of the crowd, Maurynna had a good view.
From what she could make out of the swirling melee, someone’s horse had gotten loose and was raising merry hell. She saw another horse, this one with a rider, spin around, throwing its rider to the ground. Members of the Watch appeared as if materializing from the stone and wood of the buildings lining the street. A ringing neigh assaulted her ears and she suddenly understood.
“Someone’s stallion got loose,” she said with a little snicker. “May the gods help the poor owner when the Watch catches up to him.” She looked to Otter for amused agreement.
Instead the bard stood rooted in place. “That horse sounds famil—Oh, no. I don’t believe it. It can’t be!”
The stallion neighed another challenge.
Otter grabbed his beard with both hands. “Gods help us—it is!” he groaned, and started running.
Maurynna stared after him. Then she was pushing through the laughing crowd in Otter’s wake. Someone snatched at her, angry at his rough handling by the bard and determined to take it out on someone. She pulled herself free and burst through the press into the suddenly clear street a heartbeat behind Otter.
He ran toward the soldiers of the Watch that had surrounded the amorous stallion. All the while he called “Shan! Shan!” his trained voice rising above the buzz of the onlookers.
Maurynna followed hard on his heels, still mystified. The humid air was heavy in her lungs. She felt as if she was breathing water.
How did Otter know this horse? Her puzzlement increased as the stallion looked over at Otter and neighed what could only be a greeting—though how she was so sure of that she couldn’t have said.
She noticed that the guards circling the stallion looked nervous and wondered why they feared a horse. Then she remembered Raven once telling her only a fool tried to come between a loose stallion they didn’t know and his mare. “There are neater ways of committing suicide,” he’d said.
So why hadn’t this Shan charged the soldiers in his path?
Two of the Watch were helping the mare’s rider to his feet. The mare called to the stallion. She plainly relished his advances; her rider seized the reins from the guard holding her. He cursed and howled in a voice surprisingly shrill for such a heavy man.
“I don’t care who owns that stinking animal! I’ll have damages of him! This is a pure-bred desert mare—I’ll not have her defiled by the likes of, of—that!” The curls of his foppishly dressed beard trembled with indignation.
“That” danced within the ring of the soldiers as he returned the mare’s calls. He dodged the hands grasping at his mane, letting them come just so close then jumping back as if he played a game. Even Maurynna, who knew ships better than horses, admired the fire and grace of his movements and the mischievous light in his eye. She wished Raven could see this beauty. His owner must be frantic at his loss.
Yet it was obvious the horse hadn’t been cared for of late. Burrs and twigs wove themselves through the knots and tangles of the long mane and tail. And his coat, though glossy, hadn’t met with a brush for far too long. The powerful legs, thick as sturdy oak saplings, were coated up to knee and hock with mud.
One of the soldiers held a rope halter in his hands, trying unsuccessfully t
o coax the big stallion to lower his head so that it could be slipped on. The man held out his hand as if he had a bit of carrot or apple, all the while making the soft hissing sounds Maurynna had heard grooms using to their charges.
“You won’t catch him that way, you ninny,” Otter cried. He skidded to a stop just short of the line of guards. He bent, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath.
Maurynna stopped beside him. Her own chest heaved in the humid air.
“Is this your cursed horse?” the captain of the Watch demanded of the puffing bard.
Otter shook his head. “Know him, though,” he said between gasps. He straightened. “Gods, but I’m getting too old to run like that! For pity’s sake, will you put that halter away? I tell you, it won’t work.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead.
The mare’s rider pushed up to confront Otter. Maurynna could see by the torn and dusty remains of his fine clothing that he was a noble. She felt sorry for the stallion’s owner. This fellow looked the sort to take ill any affront to his dignity.
The man drew himself up to his full height—well below Otter’s shoulder—and shrilled, “Who owns this flea-bitten nag then? Out with it, or I’ll have you flogged!”
Maurynna’s fists clenched at the threat. She longed to hit the man, noble or not. How dare he threaten a bard—and Otter, at that!
The stallion’s scream of rage beat upon their ears. He stood now, teeth bared, one eye fixed on the noble, and the look in that eye promised murder. Then he sank down on his haunches and raised forehooves over a handbreadth wide a short way from the ground. He looked like a statue carved from onyx; utterly beautiful—and deadly.
A breathless hush fell over the crowd. Even the mare fell silent.
Maurynna’s mouth went dry. Ignorant as she was of anything but the most basic riding skills, even she recognized what that stance portended. Any moment now the stallion would hop forward and strike. A blow from those hooves would crush a man’s skull like a walnut. And she had no doubt who was to be the victim.
The Last Dragonlord Page 36
