The Last Dragonlord

Read The Last Dragonlord Online

Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: The Last Dragonlord
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To Sam, because he didn’t laugh
eluki bes shahar, Shawna McCarthy, and Jim Frenkel for all they’ve done.
Judith Tarr’s novel-writing workshops at Wesleyan for advice, energy, and enthusiasm.
Judy herself, for lots more advice, unstinting help and horse neep, a virtual baseball bat when I needed it, and especially for her friendship.
And the biggest thanks of all to Walter “Sam” Gailey for loving support, advice, computer expertise, and patience above and beyond the call of duty. Sam, you are hereby nominated for sainthood.
The storm was close now
. The mage heard the rumble of thunder, heard the rising wind soughing through the tops of the pine trees. Chanting softly, he knelt before the stone altar and all that it held, then took up a silver scrying bowl and watched the scene revealed in the black ink.
He saw the barge rock as the first little waves slapped against it. The pennants at bow and stern came alive as the wind caught them. Although the colors were muted, he knew them to be the royal scarlet. The waves rose as the waters of the Uildodd River grew darker, reflecting the leaden sky above them.
More … Just a little more …
Now!
Moving swiftly, he set the silver bowl down and caught up a knife in one hand. With the other he seized the hair of the youth who lay bound and gagged on the altar. He ignored the boy’s terror-filled eyes, and, with a practiced motion, yanked the head back and slashed the blade across the exposed throat. All the while, he chanted.
He caught the hot blood in a bowl carved from the same stone as the altar, impassive as the blood spilled over his fingers, staining them red. When the deadly flow ceased, he nodded curtly. His servant pulled the body from the altar.
The incantation changed, became harsher, more urgent. He opened a small box that rested beside the bowl. First he removed a bit of wood, carved in the rough likeness of a barge, wrapped in a thread of scarlet silk. Both wood and silk had been taken from the same barge whose progress he had watched in the scrying bowl. He set them to float in the blood.
Next he took out a small bottle. From it he let three drops
of water from the Uildodd River fall into the bowl. The blood stirred as if a tiny wind raced across it.
Overhead the sky grew darker as the storm closed in and thunder walked the land. In the bowl, the waves rose higher. The crudely carved bit of wood slewed around as if turned by an unseen hand. The man watched in satisfaction as first one, then another of the tiny, crimson waves splashed against the “barge’s” stern.
He raised his voice, weaving the blood magic in a net of death. Slowly he stretched out a finger. Slowly, and with infinite satisfaction, he pressed down on the wood, forcing the back end under. Blood splashed up and over, wave after miniature wave, as he continued to push the little boat down.
It disappeared. Nor did it surface again. The chant ended on a note of triumph.
He stepped back from the altar, aware now of a sudden drop in temperature. “Clean it up,” he ordered the servant as he wiped his bloody hands on the wet cloth the man offered him. Then he walked down the slope to where he’d left his tunic.
As he picked it up, a necklace of silver chain fell out. He caught it in midair and let the heavy links slide through his fingers a moment before putting it on.
He smiled, fingering the necklace. Soon he would be able to cast it aside forever.
The first drops of rain began to fall.
The dragon gleamed in the
light of the setting sun, his scales glittering as he soared toward the castle that crowned the mountaintop. His gaze shifted to a wide, flat area ending in a cliff, wreathed in shadows cast by the dying light. A slight tilt of the powerful wings and the red dragon turned, silent, beautiful, deadly, intent on his goal.
He landed, claws scraping against stone, the sound harsh in the crystalline air. A red mist surrounded him and the great dragon became a wraith; the mist contracted, then disappeared, leaving behind the figure of a tall man.
Linden brushed a strand of hair from his eyes, his blood singing from his long flight and the magic of Changing. He crossed the shadow-dappled landing area. As he reached the first step of the long stairway that led to the castle of Dragonskeep, a voice, old but still clear and strong, rang out.
“Dragonlord.”
Linden paused and looked up. On the stairs high above him stood an elderly kir, his silvered fur catching the last of the sunlight, no expression on his short-muzzled face.
Sirl, personal servant to the Lady who ruled Dragonskeep and the Dragonlords, regarded him in return. “The Lady has need of you,” the
kir
said.
Why?
Linden wondered as he raised a hand in acknowledgment and bounded up the stairs, his long legs taking the steps three at a time. It had been long since he’d had such a summons.
When Linden reached the step where Sirl waited, the
kir
bowed to him. “If you will follow me, Dragonlord,” he said. Then he turned and led the wondering Linden to the Keep.
No words were exchanged as they walked through the
white marble halls of Dragonskeep. Globes of coldfire, set to hovering in the air by various Dragonlords, lit the way. At last they came to the tower rooms set aside for the ruler of the Keep. Sirl opened the door and bowed Linden inside. Linden entered the chamber; Sirl followed close behind, shutting the door once more.
Globes of white coldfire lit this room as well, setting aflame the gold threads running through the tapestries that covered the five walls. Dragons soaring against blue skies, sunsets, a river of stars, or among mountain crags covered four of them. The fifth, incongruously, was of a hunting scene: a stag, a pack of baying hounds, three huntsmen, all forever frozen as they raced through the forest. A reminder, perhaps, of the Lady’s life before she Changed? Linden doubted he would ever know. They were the only decoration in the room, which was sparsely furnished. What few items of furniture there were looked lost in the emptiness.
The Lady sat in a high-backed wooden chair. Her long fingers cradled a cup of tea as though seeking its warmth. She looked unreal in the cold light. Even the pale albino’s eyes that watched him seemed colorless. She beckoned.
As he crossed the room, he studied her. She had been very young, he knew—only fifteen—when she’d Changed for the first time. Their kind aged slowly; how many centuries had the Lady seen to give her face that delicate tracery of wrinkles? After more than six centuries, he himself still looked only twenty-eight.
Without thinking, Linden touched the wine-colored birthmark that spread across his right temple and eyelid. It was his Marking, as the Lady’s icy paleness was hers. He’d hated it until he’d discovered what it meant: that he was one of the great weredragons, the lords and servants of humankind. A Dragonlord.
Linden knelt before the Lady. Setting his hands on his thighs, he bowed till his forehead almost touched the floor—the salute of a Yerrin clansman to his lord. “Lady?” he said.
The Lady studied him for a long moment. Then she said, “Yes, I was right. You will be the third.”
Linden frowned slightly as he accepted a cup of tea from Sirl.
And what does she mean by
—
Memory returned and with it came understanding. Lleld, smallest of the Dragonlords, had been late to breakfast that morning, bubbling over with news and speculation—more of the latter than the former. Linden thanked the gods he hadn’t taken her up on the wager she’d demanded when he’d laughed at her notions. Sometimes Lleld’s wild predictions had a way of becoming real, and he’d no wish to lose that particular cloak brooch.
The Lady’s long, pale fingers tapped against the cup. “You have never sat in judgment, have you, Linden? Then perhaps it is time, little one—” She stopped at his chuckle. “Impudent scamp, you know very well what I mean!” she scolded with an affectionate smile.
Linden hid a grin as he drank. Over six and a half feet tall in his stocking feet, he towered over everyone else at Dragonskeep. The Lady herself barely came up to his chest. But with only a little more than six centuries behind him he was the youngest Dragonlord, the “little one.”
And, to his great grief, likely the last.
“You’ve heard by now that a messenger from Cassori arrived early this morning, yes?” she said.
Linden nodded. “Lleld said something about it at breakfast; she’d heard it from the servants. Is it about the regency? I’d thought that was already settled some time ago and the queen’s drowning proven to be an accident. Wasn’t there an investigation?”
“There was; it found no cause for suspicion. And now that the period of mourning is over, we had all thought Duke Beren was to be confirmed as regent. But then came this challenge, the messenger said. The Cassorin council is divided; they cannot settle the matter and many of the barons are becoming restless. Luckily the messenger came before the
Saethe
and I left to confer with the truedragons.”
Of course; on the morrow, the Lady and the Dragonlords’ own council—the
Saethe
—were to consult with the truedragons on a matter of grave and growing concern to the
Dragonlords. For there had been no new Dragonlords, not even a hint of one, since his own First Change. It explained the Lady’s haste, then, in choosing judges—if Lleld had guessed right once again.
Aloud he said, “Most of the Cassorin royal family are dead now, aren’t they?” Bad luck attended this reign, it seemed; he’d seen its like before.
“Yes; all save for a little boy, Prince Rann, and two uncles: the challenger, Peridaen, a prince of the blood, and Duke Beren, who has a strong lateral claim to the throne.”
Linden considered as he sipped his tea. Another of Lleld’s guesses confirmed. He went on, “So the Cassorin messenger came to ask for Dragonlord judgment.” At the Lady’s nod, he smiled. “That was Lleld’s guess. She also predicted Kief and Tarlna would be sent as arbitrators, since they’re Cassorin and have done this before.”
“Lleld,” the Lady said, sounding exasperated, “is entirely too clever by half. Someday she’ll guess wrong. But not this time. Kief and Tarlna are indeed going to Cassori. And so, I have decided, are you, as the third judge required.” The Lady set her empty cup on the low table to one side of her chair. Sirl appeared and took it.
Linden carefully schooled his expression to stay blank. A mission with Tarlna, who chided him at every chance for his lack—by her prim standards—of dignity as befitted a Dragonlord? Oh, joy. He wondered what he’d done to deserve this.
Yet to sit in judgment was his duty as a Dragonlord. But why him, Yerrin by birth, and the youngest, least experienced Dragonlord to boot? True, he spoke Cassorin—a talent for languages seemed to go with being a Dragonlord. But there were others far more experienced in such things. Surely one of them was to be preferred.
He held his tongue.
“The three of you will leave in the morning. Since there is no time to be lost, you will all Change and fly to Cassori. The court has not left the city for the summer yet; the claimants shall await you in the great palace in Casna.” The Lady
smiled. “I know you’d rather ride Shan, but I fear Cassori cannot afford the time it would take.” She beckoned Linden to rise.
He offered her his arm as she rose from her chair, and escorted her from the room.
 
They paused in the doorway of the hall, watching the dancing that began every night after the evening meal. The Lady leaned easily on his arm, nodding her head slightly in time to the music.
Linden said, “Lady, if I may ask … Why did you choose me? Kief and Tarlna, yes, they are Cassorin. I’m not. So?” He waited as she considered her answer.
Finally she said, “For the sake of a feeling that I have, little one.” Her soultwin Kelder emerged from the dancers and came toward them. She held out her hand to him.
As Kelder led her into the dance, the Lady looked back. “But whether this matter needs you,” she said, “or you need this matter, I don’t know.”
 
On his way to his chambers Linden met Lleld coming the other way down the hall.
“Hello, little one,” Lleld said with a grin as he stopped to talk to her.
“You love being able to say that to me, don’t you?” Linden replied, unable to keep an answering smile from his face as he towered over her. Lleld’s Marking was her height; the little Dragonlord was no taller than a child of perhaps ten years. “You weren’t at the dancing tonight,” he said.
“Ah, no—I had something else to do,” she said. “So tell me—was I right?”
He nodded. “About everything.”
She heaved a sigh of regret. “Blast, but I wish you’d taken that wager.”
“I’ve learned,” he said dryly.
“You’re to be the third judge, aren’t you?” She cocked her head at him.
Laughing, he said, “Right again, you redheaded imp. I just hope it won’t take too long.”
“Or be too boring; regency debates usually are, you know,” Lleld said helpfully, “as well as taking years to settle, sometimes. A pity this isn’t one of your friend Otter’s tales, isn’t it? It would be much more interesting then.”
One of Otter’s—That would be all he’d need on top of Tarlna’s company. Linden asked in some exasperation, “And what did I do that you should wish that on me, Lady Mayhem?”
Lleld just grinned. “Ah, well; I’d best be off. It’s getting late.” And with that she sauntered off down the hall.
Linden continued on to his rooms, shaking his head. The things Lleld thought up … And she had looked entirely too innocent as she’d walked away.
When he entered his chambers, he found Varn, his servant, almost finished packing for him. Sirl must have sent word on.
Varn looked up. “The boys are already asleep. They stayed up as long as they could to say good-bye, but …” He smiled and shook his head.
“Tell them I’m sorry,” Linden said. And he was; he was fond of his servant’s twin sons.
The golden-furred kir straightened up from closing the last buckle on a leather pack. “They’ll miss their pillow fights,” Varn said with a grin. “Though I should warn you that they’ve bribed Lleld to join them for the next great battle. Something about honey cakes, I think it was.”
Linden shook his head, laughing. “Have they now, the little hellions? And that explains where Lleld was. Thanks for the warning. Ah, well; I shouldn’t be gone long.”
“You hope,” Varn said as he eased Linden’s small harp into its traveling case.
 
Linden sat on the wide stone rail of the balcony. Behind him was the open door to his rooms, some ten of his long strides across the balcony floor. He looked out into the night, savoring the coolness, the spicy scent of the night-blooming
callitha
rising from the gardens below.
Varn had gone home to wife and sons long ago. Now there was only one thing left to arrange before sleeping; Lleld’s earlier comment had given him an idea. Closing his eyes, Linden made ready to “cast his call on the wind” as the Dragonlords said.
He let his thoughts drift, seeking a particular mind. There came a faint stirring, an impression of the sea, the whisper of wind in canvas, a ship gently rocking. To his surprise he had to strain to keep the link; Otter was much farther away than Linden had thought he’d be.
Then the link wavered on the edge of dissolving; the distance was just too great. Linden was about to abandon the attempt when he felt a sudden surge of power.
What on—?
Then he realized: his quarry was on board a ship. That burst of magical power must mean some merlings, the half-fish, half-human people of the seas, were nearby. They often followed ships for days at a time. Somehow their magic must be augmenting his own.
He was not slow to take advantage of this bit of luck.
Otter
? he said.
A wordless rush of delight, then,
Linden? Linden, is that really you?
Linden smiled.
It is indeed, old friend. I’m leaving Dragonskeep in the morning.
Quickly he told the bard all he knew.
I’m flying there in dragon form. I thought we might journey together afterward
I
could come back for Shan and meet you wherever you are
—
or rather, are going to.
Otter said,
You’re not taking Shan? Have you told him yet that you’re leaving him behind? I wish I could see it when you do.

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